


Lifelines

by Hund



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Albinism, Character Study, Disability, F/F, Fingering, Masturbation, Military, Oral Sex, References to Bisexuality, References to PTSD, References to War Crimes, Slow Burn, Worldbuilding, alcohol use, discussions of consent, ethically questionable relationship decisions, f/m fantasizing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2019-11-01 14:52:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17869343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hund/pseuds/Hund
Summary: Everyone knows her reputation: out for blood, a violent streak honed and tempered by two decades of experience, more direct kills to her name than most-- but no matter how storied or contentious the career, everyone has their weak points.Boxed in by General Oliver's holding pattern, and caught in a cycle of mundanity that's bound and determined to drive her stir crazy, Colonel Moore finds herself courting a kind of restlessness that, inevitably, leads to a string of bad decisions. Luckily for her, an old friend from her ranger days is there to make sure those decisions bite a little deeper-- for better, or for worse.NOTE: If this story seems at all familiar, it's because it's an updated overhaul of a falloutkinkmeme fill entitled 'The Cure for an Organized Bore.' See fic notes for further information. Rating will change as the story progresses.





	1. A Common Ailment

**Author's Note:**

> As stated, this is an overhaul of a kinkmeme prompt that was written way, way back in 2011. It was abandoned on account of not really knowing what to do with it, and on account of the rather lethargic pace it took-- telling a lot, but showing little. This is still faithful to the original intent, still acts as an in-depth character study for Colonel Moore, explores the effects of her injury, and some of her time amidst the rangers, etc, but I'd like to think it's been handled more elegantly. 
> 
> Slow-burn to the ~good~ stuff, but, I promise, once it gets there, it stays put for a good long while.
> 
> As a vague warning, this doesn't attempt to glorify, excuse, or even really defend Moore's hawkish traits, and nor does it go out of its way to closely examine what many viewed as rather polarizing faults. The omission is intentional, as it's written exclusively in her POV. Additionally, I’m a little horrified by what I used to think was an appropriate age for Moore, so that’s been changed. She and Ghost both are now assumed to be in their 40s (mid-to-late). 
> 
> Primary timeline takes place squarely between the first battle for Hoover Dam, and the beginning of FNV.

It started as an itch, right in the center of her thigh.

Cassandra frowned; wondered when, or even if she’d have a chance to reach down and scratch at it. Oliver was pacing back and forth in front of the lot of them, the men and women crowded shoulder to shoulder to either side of her. Every single one of them, at attention, eyes forward.

Judging the moment to be safe, she reached down just far enough to take hold of her pant leg near her hip, twisting her fingers in the fabric. Felt it tug at her skin, the heavy cloth stuck on-- something. Tried to think, as the general entered into her peripheral vision, of what on earth she could have gotten herself into that morning; tried to assess if it was a stray piece of tape that had ended up on her clothes, or some other adhesive.

Didn’t have time to characterize it; was forced to let the pant leg go, before her fidgeting was given any notice. She was already taking chances; didn’t need him taking her to task for her inattention.

Not that much attention was needed. It was a routine speech, the kind he usually gave when he resumed his post at the Dam. Pacing back and forth, slow and careful, like a bear still waking from a long stretch of hibernation, no longer sure of its footing.

The itch came again, as she watched him; prompted her to shift her weight from one foot to the other, as if that might somehow be of assistance. Found herself sinking her teeth into the meat of her cheek in an effort to redirect the sparks thrown by agitated nerves, and shifted again. It didn’t help. The itch became a tickle; a wet sensation that began at the midpoint of her thigh, and slid lazily downward to curl around her knee. Warm, like blood, but too slow; too viscous.

Oliver was still talking. Making vague gestures, his movements like that of a conductor, calling to life quick, errant twitches that clutched at the muscle generating the itch-- the ache-- the light tremor--

She could feel herself breaking into a sweat, just enough that the sheen would be obvious to anyone that cared to look. Chanced a glance downward, heartbeat accelerating even before she could catch sight of what was wrong, each thrumming pulse giving life to an unnatural heat beneath her skin, her chest constricting around breaths that became quick; uneven.

Where there had been cloth--  where there had been skin and bone, there was now little more than a molten crater hollowed out into the meat of her thigh, glowing a nauseous green, fissures splitting in jagged patterns through flesh licked red and raw by caustic rivers that branched out in every direction.

Then her eyes opened; focused hard on the industrial pipes that raced over the ceiling of her quarters, the patterns illuminated by a dim glow of a single red sodium light, too small to be much more than an accent in an otherwise darkened room.

She did her best to slow her breathing; lifted her hands from beneath the covers to rub at her face, the sound of her heartbeat still pounding in her ears.

 

* * *

 

"They'll happen sometimes," she'd been told. "The dreams, I mean."

Moore hadn't wanted to talk about them; hadn't wanted to acknowledge them at all, really, but the nursing staff at the Long 15 hadn't allowed her to slip the net so easily-- had made the psyche evaluation that took place back in Shady Sands mandatory. Something about violently lashing out at the orderlies before she woke that they'd considered to be a warning sign of something deeper than just the extensive physical damage.

It would have been easier, they said, if she was just returning to service as regular army. Evals still took place, but didn't tend to be quite as extensive. Transferring in from the rangers, on the other hand-- that was another story. Rangers weren't as prone to the shellshock the grunts often came home with - or, post-traumatic stress, as the Followers often insisted it be called - and tended, instead, to tilt towards delusions of grandeur, of being untouchable, capable of the kinds of cruelties that rivaled only the raiders their recruits often went up against.

She'd be lying if she said she hadn't seen it before, but she knew it only as a partial truth. For every ranger that took up the mantle of something approaching psychopathy, there were at least two more that had fallen to pieces, for one reason or another. The branch's members may have been lauded for their resilience, for being able to absorb more punishment than most, but they shattered just like any other Joe, given enough time-- and particularly vicious attacks had a way of leaving their mark.

"Judging by the state they found you in, I'm not surprised you're having them."

Lying in a canyon, half naked, stripped of her jeans, a simple pair of underwear retaining her modesty, though just barely; thigh carved open in a dozen places by a shrapnel blast, and still bubbling with the remnants of a plasma grenade; blunt trauma to the face and abdomen, characteristic of blows delivered by someone wearing power armor, resulting in a few broken ribs, and a minor concussion. The list went on from there.

No, she said, she hadn't been sexually assaulted. That was true; wasn't really the Brotherhood's style, anyway.

No, she said, she hadn't been forcibly stripped; she'd done that herself, tearing off her jeans to keep the denim from fusing to her skin. That was a lie, but functioned as truth for the hypothetical scenario she'd presented as fact. Splash-back from grenades had a way of doing that, and she hadn't caught the full blast.

But the splash-back from remains did the same thing, if it was fresh enough. She didn't mention that part; didn't see the need. Just letting slip that she'd watched the ranger she'd been paired off with get melted down into a reeking mass of undifferentiated tissue had been enough to appease her evaluator, and the rest had gone unspoken.

Maybe it would have helped, speaking out about the rest, but she doubted it. Rightly concerned that the honesty being asked of her would end her career, she'd opened up just enough to be considered compliant-- and the offer to resume her service had, to her relief, remained on the table. The truth of the matter she could compartmentalize on her own, though it had taken work, and hadn't gone seamlessly, her tours against the Brotherhood cementing a reputation for dispassionate cruelty, and a kind of ruthlessness that she'd never live down.

Better to own it than run from it, she'd decided; make it as much a part of her as the myriad scars she'd been left with, over the years. As for the dreams--

They were still there, sometimes-- some worse than others.  The one that followed her into wakefulness that morning, had stalked her through the dam's labyrinthine halls, was one she'd come to see as part of an early warning system; as her subconscious' half-cocked, and, yes, thoroughly obnoxious method of telling her that her leg would be requiring more attention than usual. Most of the time, she listened-- but not always.

Sometimes, resentment - petulant, unseemly, and utterly irrational - had a way of gaining the upper hand.

 

* * *

 

“Ma’am? Everything all right?”

It was a question Moore was, unfortunately, accustomed to hearing. A stray glance here, a thoughtful expression there; didn’t seem to matter what it was. If it appeared on her face, it was guaranteed to draw attention, and the curiosity that followed was, so far as she was concerned, endemic of the situation at hand.

Give soldiers too much time to think, too much time trapped in a holding pattern, and they invariably seized on anything that looked even remotely like a reprieve from the boredom that entailed.

On that front, she couldn’t help but sympathize. Still-- the question did get a bit old, after a while.

Even so, she resigned herself to it, “I suppose that depends on what you mean by ‘all right,’” said absently as she took stock of the various items arranged on the table between them.

“You just seem a bit distracted, is all.”

Moore glanced up. Barton still had his head angled down towards the clipboard in hand, gaze flicked upward to take in her response. He was still new enough to the post that he still had some innate hesitancy to him, likely wondering how many rumors regarding his latest CO had merit. Had he made a misstep? Should he backpedal?

Rather than let him tangle with those questions for too long, she said, “It’s been a long morning, and ‘a bit distracted’ is par for the course.”

Barton nodded; did what he could to take that as a given, gaze wandering back down towards the hastily developed spreadsheet he had in front of him. Wasn’t the prettiest thing in the world, but she had to give him points for being well-organized. For the moment, however, the distraction he perceived from her was driving him to the same, leading to a light, rhythmic tap of his pen against the clipboard.

Glancing at the pen, she said, “I take it there’s something you’d like to add to that,” gaze shifting back up towards his face in time to catch the flicker of a half-smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“I, ah,” he said, then paused, long enough to bring the idle tapping to heel. “I guess I’m just curious,” he said, “if it has something to do with the meeting.” Another pause. “It being a long morning, I mean.”

Would’ve been a simple matter, telling him that her previous answer should suffice, but she’d been through this song and dance enough times to know that the dismissal would be counterproductive, at best. Her subordinates always got a little squirrely when it came time for staff meetings, no matter how many times they’d been through it before, and Barton had been no exception. Amounted to nothing, usually, and her men were quick to settle back into their usual routines, but all the same, on the day in question, there was usually more than a little tension involved.

Made it easier to say, “Trust me, captain,” regardless of whether or not she felt the reassurances were necessary, “there’s nothing I’d like more than to say that we’re on the verge of some major breakthrough, but the chances of this being anything more than a routine briefing are slim to none.”

Barton nodded again, but again there came the sense of something going unsaid. He at least had the decency to let his deliberations show on his face, his expression that of a man searching for the right words, his fingers gripping the pen just a little tighter. Still keeping himself from tapping, she wagered, wondering how long she’d have to let him think it over before prompting him again.

Then, after seeing a furrow in his brow that appeared to be the result of stumbling over yet another roadblock, she said, “You’re wondering why.”

“Ma’am?”

“Why I bother.”

Another hint of a smile. “Be lying if I said I wasn’t curious,” he said. “Nine hours is nothing to sneeze at, and if the meeting’s not mandatory--”

It was politely stated, at least, but she knew what he was asking. ‘Why on earth would someone with a bum leg take a walk across the desert if all it amounts to is a whole lot of nothing?’ In fairness, though the cautious wording was, itself, galling in its own way, she was forced to admit that she was still wondering the same thing, herself-- but she wasn't about to tell him that.

Instead, she said, “Let’s just say I’d rather not give the general the impression that I’m just keeping his seat warm,” opting for a more candid response in the hopes that it would put the premise of the question out of his mind.

Served another purpose, in the long run. Would give her an idea of what caliber of officer she was dealing with, and the captain was, by his own admission, a lifer-- and what that entailed could go one of two ways. One good, one--  tolerable, though not ideal. That he didn’t feel the need to ask questions, instead pursing his lips to avoid a smile, was a good sign.

“My old man had some stories like that,” he said. “About Kimball, mostly. Said the guy wouldn’t--“ A pause; another faintly sheepish look. “Said he liked to micromanage.”

“It’s a common ailment,” Moore replied, the frank response loosening some of the tension that appeared in his shoulders, “and, from what I can tell, a pre-requisite to pinning stars on your collar.”

Barton chuckled, brows arching, his attention straying back to his clipboard. “Well,” he said, looking over the inventory on the table again, “guess you better start getting in the habit, then. This campaign goes well--“

“Then Hsu will enjoy a well-deserved promotion,” she said, “and I, hopefully, will be moving on to our next target,” the interruption earning her another curious look. That time, she felt no need to explain herself, saying instead, “Now,” her hand tipping towards the supplies on the table, “if you don’t mind--?”

 

* * *

 

It went without saying that Moore's insistence on maintaining a presence was her own form of eccentricity, conferred to her by the eagles pinned to her collar. What form that eccentricity took, however, depended entirely on who was making comment.

Oliver had his own theories, stating to Hsu on more than one occasion that, "Someone must've chosen all the wrong words when they were telling her to stay put, ‘cause I swear she makes the trip out of sheer spite."

She, respectfully, would have called it an overstatement. Had, in fact, at those times Hsu thought to point out that the comment had been made.

Others, like the recently-promoted Lieutenant Boyd, echoed what had been said to Barton, though in more candid terms. "Moment he steps onto the airfield," she said, "the whole place gets turned inside out. I can't imagine what he'd do to the dam." Emboldened by drink and a few good hands of poker, she grunted, and added, "Generals," under her breath. "I swear, if they just took a page from some of the stray dogs we got around here-- pissed on everything they wanted to leave their mark on? We'd get by a lot easier."

She'd gotten some gentle reminders to keep that particular assessment to herself, but no one had the heart to disagree. Then there was Major Kieran, who appeared to look askance at the end of every meeting, in the earlier days that the face to face meetings were conducted, though she kept her comments largely to herself.

It wasn't until she was pulled aside and asked directly that she said, "Begging your pardon, ma'am," as careful in her choice of words as she was with her tone, "but you're not the first CO I've known that's got a thing about--"

A pause. Kieran trailed off, gaze darting down towards the space between them.

"About what?" Moore prompted her. "Whatever you have to say, major, I'm not going to take it personally. But if you have a charge to make, I suggest you make it. We'll do what we can to sort it out from there."

Kieran hesitated; shifted her jaw ever so slightly to one side, but met the colonel's gaze, all the same. "It's not a charge, ma'am," she said, "but I have concerns." Another brief hesitation-- then, "Brass needs an escort of at least four men. Nearly six, in your case. And the dam has all our best. I wouldn't want anything happening to you, or them, because--"

Another hesitation. That time, Moore didn't force the issue; she already knew what was coming.

"Because I'm reliving my so-called glory days," she said. "Is that it?"

Kieran debated how best to answer, then nodded. And though it took her a moment to speak, she did, eventually, "I didn't plan on putting it quite like that," said in a manner that didn't manage to be quite as contrite as she'd been aiming for, "but-- if that were the case, you wouldn't be the first to try."

Or the first to die trying, for that matter.

It was, Moore assumed, the most common belief there was among her subordinates, where this particular matter was concerned. It just wasn't terribly common for the belief to be given a voice.

She'd be lying to herself, to anyone that asked, if she said she hadn't given some thought to going back on her word, in some way. Nothing excessive; just enough to put the fear of god in the woman, but it would have been pointless, counterproductive, and cruel, besides. The major had lost no less than eight of her subordinates to a colonel that had fought tooth and nail for one last chance to cement his legacy, and all but him had paid dearly for the effort. If anyone had a valid reason to be concerned, it was probably her.

So-- not her proudest moment, Moore allowed, but it came and went with ease, rising in the back of her mind and just as quickly fading out when it failed to gain a foothold. It was only when it had, when it had manifested only as idle contemplation in her expression, that she explained, in simple terms, what the trips to and from the dam actually entailed.

"It's the kind of assignment most of the soldiers stationed there are eager to take," she said. "So far as they're concerned, it's a weekend pass without the paperwork. As for the possibility of an ambush-- well. They do need something to break up the day to day monotony, and, quite frankly? So do I."

Her reasons weren't, after all, entirely altruistic, and presenting it that way would have, rightly, been met with suspicion. Nonetheless, 'babysitting the colonel' did come with its own perks, not the least of which was the destination itself. Once there, the soldiers assigned to her were free to do as they pleased, provided they were functional by the time they were scheduled to head back to base.

Kieran seemed to ease, hearing that; had even gone so far as to offer a genuine apology for her presumption, and gone about her business. Since then, the odd looks had stopped.

The major had heard the stories, after all. Everyone had. About the constant monotony, about how infuriating it had been to see the construction of the Fort take place across the canyon. About catching glimpses of firelight over the edge of wooden gates, watching and waiting for the day that the fires would be extinguished-- either by the NCR's hand, or by the Legion's, when at last the Fort no longer served its purpose.

Moore had found it a convenient crutch to lean on, if she was being honest, and it could only help that there was more than a grain of truth to it. Framing it as a bonus, as a morale boost to the lucky soldiers that had performed exceptionally well in the intervening months, or a break from grueling drills and exercises? That could be taken at face value. More to the point, she was right there with them-- day in, day out, filing paperwork, answering questions, ordering drills, changing up schedules, authorizing transfers, signing off on requisitions, and, of course, fighting with the political office.

"It's raw tedium," she'd warned Barton, upon his arrival. "An organized bore, even in the best of circumstances."

Still-- by hour four of trekking across the desert wastes, Moore found, much to her dismay, that she would have given just about anything to stay behind, and face every minute of it. But there was no turning back now; she faced nearly as long a walk back as she did moving forwards.

Better, she supposed, to just keep moving forwards.

 

* * *

 

Maybe it was the promise of finding a place to rest that did it; maybe it was the rush of air that came with the opening of the airfield's gates-- or maybe it was the cool interior of the McCarran terminal, the promise of finding a place to rest not too far away--

Didn't matter what the reason was for her body threatening to give out from under her; the only thing that did was taking those final steps into Hsu's office without collapsing in front of god and everyone.

But he knew. Opening the door for her, ushering her in, letting her dismiss the men and women flanking her-- Hsu had worked with her for long enough that the question was there on his face before it could be given a voice. How long her expression had been throwing out tells, she couldn't say for certain. All she knew was, unlike the soldiers that dispersed into the terminal building, most of whom were making a b-line for the monorail, he wasn't nearly as inclined to refrain from putting that question into words.

Thankfully, he waited to air his concerns only after the door to his office had shut. And even then--

"Are you--"

"I'll need a moment," she said, only too aware of the strain in her voice, of the subtle chill the sweat that had broken out over her face and chest had taken on.

There was no pretense of waiting for a gesture to sit; she moved immediately for the cot in the corner of his office, carefully easing herself down on the mattress, the relief that came from getting off her feet putting only a partial dent in the ache that, even now, was pushing its way up into her abdomen. 'Referred pain,' the doctors had called it; something about the way her nerves had mended. Or about the way her tendons had been stitched back together. Hell if she could remember what it was, and she couldn't quite summon the will to care, the bulk of her attention fixed on placing her hands on her thigh, and pressing down as hard as she could.

It didn't help. For a moment, she could see white at the edges of her vision, her throat closing tight around a sharp breath, her eyes snapping shut soon after. No longer held aloft by the goal of reaching her destination, her body took that moment to point out to her, in stunning detail, just how grave a mistake she'd made. For every successive arc flash that tore through her nerves, there was always another, and another, leaving her with little choice but to grit her teeth, and suffer through it.

"Easy." The word broke through the whine in her ears, the hand that came to rest between her shoulders acting like a completed circuit, jump-starting the shock of tension that spiked into her shoulders. "Take a deep breath."

Any other time, she might have snarled at him; barked at him, told him to cram it. But with the keening in her ears, and the white hot pulse of raw agony ripping into meat and muscle, there were no words; wasn't even room for any anger. The only option she had, no matter how deeply she resented it, was to listen. And she did; became aware of how frequently she was holding her breath-- how badly her lungs burned when, finally, she let it go, and did her best to take some measure of control over the response.

"You didn't get attacked, did you?"

She shook her head; took a few slow, shaky breaths, as if that might somehow give her some control over the situation.

"So, this--" A pause; a subtle shift of his hand against her back, like fingers splaying, the sensation right at the periphery of her mangled perceptions. "Do you need me to get some ice?"

"Please," she said; couldn't make herself care that she said it quickly.

Wasn't even sure it would help. She just needed a moment, she told herself. Maybe several.

And several more, besides. By the time he returned, the shocks had only become spasms, and by the time he sat by her side, they had dialed down to a sharp throb. She'd need to get a look at it, she knew; get a look at the scar, make sure she hadn't done herself any lasting damage.

It was a harrowing thought, and it was one she didn't entertain for long, diverting her efforts instead towards taming her expression, the bare-toothed grimace and tightly furrowed brow allowed to ease, little by little.

She was still panting, still sweating; Hsu was still speaking. Offering encouragement of some kind, maybe. She couldn't tell; wasn't sure she cared to know.

That was, until she heard him say, "Do you want me to get the doctor?" the cold compress he'd brought for her finally entering her peripheral vision.

It only occurred to her, just then, that she was holding a precious commodity. The Dam had readily available refrigeration units, but McCarran?

"I probably shouldn't have asked you for this," she said; could still hear how strained her voice sounded, but there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

"In fairness," Hsu replied, "I was the one that offered." A pause. Then, cautiously, he said, "Do you, ah-- do you need me to--?"

"No," she said, "thank you," realizing that she was still clutching to her thigh as if desperately attempting to keep pressure on an open wound. Lifting her hand to accept the compress, she pressed it down on the center of the scar tissue, and said, "I think I can manage just fine on my own."

"Good," he said. Then, after a moment, he said, "You never answered my question. About whether or not you wanted a doctor."

"I'll see him later," she said. "Preferably when everyone else is getting ready for sleep."

"There might be a problem with that."

She chanced a glance in his direction, her brow furrowed. "What problem?"

Given the look on his face, she already regretted asking.

"Oliver wants the meeting held tonight," he said, which only solidified that regret, "not tomorrow."

" _What?_ " It came out more forcefully than she intended, and she didn't doubt for a moment that some the guards outside had heard her. "Leaving aside this--" She took a breath; gave a short shake of her head. "I've been out in the sun for nine hours," she said, softening her voice to a more conversational level, though the growl remained. "Even if I _wasn't_ dealing with this--" a glance at the door, more than a few colorful terms distilled down to, " _drawback_ ," though she could only imagine the contempt in all of them bled through, "I wouldn't be particularly inclined to listen to-- what? More of the same?"

"And then some," Hsu replied, confirming what she'd already told Barton.

"So why on earth is he--" Moore paused; closed her eyes, and let out a slow breath. "Don't tell me." Dutifully, he didn't, leaving her to take a moment, and say, "His wife's visiting," her free hand raising to rub at her eyes. "Isn't she?"

"She is, yes. She'll be at the Long 15 by morning." A pause. "And," he said, "being at least marginally fair to him, he did say we should give you an hour or so to get cleaned up."

"Well," she said, her hand dropping back down, eyes opening to look down at the icepack pressed to her thigh, "that rules out the doctor, then. I can't afford to walk into that room with a head full of painkillers."

Hsu _mn_ 'd. "Wouldn't be a terrible idea," he said. "It'd make the meeting go by a lot quicker."

In spite of herself, Moore breathed a short laugh, her brows arching. "Granted," she said, "but I seem to recall that sort of thing being frowned upon."

"There might be some regulations involved in there, somewhere," he said, affecting a contemplative look, "but there's a chance I might forget what those are, under the circumstances."

She hated that the offer was a tempting one; hated even more that he was willing to consider it. That said enough on its own about the state she was in, and how it looked to someone that had known her for-- what? Almost a decade, now? In fits and starts.

In the end, she just shook her head; found it fitting that her leg chose that time to start in on another short-lived rebellion, forcing her to hold her breath. When it ebbed, she said, "I'll just need some time alone, I think." A pause. "If that's all right."

"I think I can handle being kicked out of my own office for a little while," he said, carefully rising to his feet to avoid jostling the cot. "If you think it'll help."

"Not as much as I'd like," she said, "but-- it'll have to suffice. And," she said, doing her best to straighten a little more, not particularly fond of remaining hunched over her own leg like a dog guarding raw meat, "if we're already going so far as to talk about possible dereliction, I suppose a shot of whiskey wouldn't hurt."

"Intramuscular," he said, "or would you prefer it be administered the old fashioned way?"

"We'll see," she said, "but you might want to have a syringe handy. Just in case."

"I'll see what I can manage," he said, crossing the distance to the door, seeming confident that the worst of the 'crisis' was over.

Still-- he paused at the door for a time, turning to look at her over his shoulder. Whatever he had in mind to say, however, he wisely kept to himself.


	2. I Saw An Opening, So I Took It

Throughout her life, Moore had worked directly with two generals. The first was Kimball, who had, upon earning his first star, taken it upon himself to lead a joint coalition against the Brotherhood; the second was Oliver, whose lack of variation and flexibility had led to many a sleepless night.

“It’s strange,” she said to Hsu, once upon a time, over drinks served in the aftermath of a particularly contentious meeting. “I’d heard stories about Oliver’s career as he was making his way up the ranks. Hearing those, you’d never think he was--“

Hsu hadn’t offered any suggestions for how to phrase that politely, opting instead to refresh the drink she’d been gesturing with as a means of conferring what she couldn’t quite put into words. “Makes two of us,” he said, refilling his own glass not a moment later.

They’d allowed a brief silence to settle after the fact, eyeing each other over the rims of their glasses, carefully discerning how far was too far, where it came to criticism.

Eventually, it was Moore, reclining in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, chin resting against her thumb while her middle and forefinger tapped lightly against the edge of her cheekbone, that broke the silence to say, “’Incompetent’ feels like a bit of a stretch.”

Hsu assumed a similarly relaxed posture, and took the requisite amount of time needed to ‘consider’ that. “’Out of touch’ would be a little more appropriate.”

Moore pursed her lips to avoid a smile. “A little?” She paused, sobering-- then said, “He does seem rather enamored with his own ideas, though, doesn’t he?”

Hsu assumed a similarly relaxed posture, and took the requisite amount of time needed to ‘consider’ that. Then, he said, “Thinking of blowing some smoke up his ass?”

That time, she didn’t bother to keep the smile in check, understated though it was. “In a manner of speaking,” she said, “but you’ve dealt with him for longer than I have. You’d have a better handle on whether or not that might be of some use.”

“Wouldn’t lead to any particularly stunning breakthroughs,” Hsu replied, “and there’d be some risk involved that we might end up paying for, in the long run.”

“Granted."

“But,” Hsu continued, “if he’s allowed to believe that the ideas are his own--“ He allowed that to trail off, his expression sobering as he watched her for a time, the considerate look decidedly less flippant. Then, “It’s worth mentioning,” he said, “that if I catch you making suggestions I take issue with, I’ll be doing what I can to steer him in another direction." 

It was blunt, the words chosen carefully, but-- as aggravating as Hsu could be about maintaining a firm control of the moral high ground, Moore had to at least credit him with being up-front about it. “There’s a good chance he’d read that as healthy debate,” she said, “which, it’s worth noting, is nothing he hasn’t seen from us already.”

“True,” he said, “but we both know he agrees with you more often than he agrees with me. If I’m going to cooperate, I’d like to try to reach a compromise.”

It wasn’t a complaint; it was more about what was going unsaid than not, leaving Moore to pause, and consider. “And you want some veto power ahead of time,” she said.

"And your support, occasionally," he said.

“That’s an ask you’ll have to use sparingly."

“Of course.”

“And it’ll require a lot more pre-planning and discussion than what I’d initially had in mind,” Moore said, “but--” a pause, giving her time to drain her glass of its contents before setting it on his desk, wordlessly requesting a refill, “I think I can be amenable to it.”

They’d been less skittish about voicing their opinions to one another, after the fact-- and Hsu, true to his word, hadn’t been overbearing about requesting that certain ideas be tabled. The man was nothing if not practical, she found, preferring to think of their separate points of view as individual strengths feeding into a greater whole, even if he ‘took issue’ with her on a handful of key points.

Better, though, to be working together than not, and they hadn’t been wrong about putting their plan into action. Offering tacit suggestions the general believed to be his own _had_ worked, though with varying results. Sometimes, it went over as they’d hoped it would: Oliver would alight upon their ideas like the insinuated epiphany it was, and give it his full-throated support. Others--  well. It backfired. He'd miss the mark completely, mangling the suggestion in a manner reminiscent of a drunken game of telephone, and render it useless.

It would have been funny if it wasn't so depressing, but it was better than letting the man continue to be insufferable at best, and a liability - both to morale, and to the campaign as a whole - at worst.

That night, however--

That night, he was committing the cardinal sin of being boring, on top of everything else.

It was hard to tell what exactly ‘boring’ had become tangled up in, but, at that point, Moore wasn’t entirely sure it mattered. Exhausted, still fighting aches that she resented more and more with each passing minute, she’d known early on that her mind would see it fit to wander, and wander it did. Made it so she had only caught bits and pieces of what was said, leaving Hsu to offer the suggestions without any meaningful interjections, on her part.

It hadn’t gone unnoticed. Oliver glanced at her intermittently; moreso, when she found herself shifting in her chair to better position her leg beneath the table. It was, however, only once he caught the flash of irritation that came with it that he’d clearly made a decision to call her out, the furrowed brow and distinct frown letting her know that he was inclined to let her off the hook.

“Something on your mind, colonel?”

“No, sir,” clearly wasn’t an acceptable answer, even if there was some truth to it; left her to pause for a time, for just slightly longer than decorum allowed for, her mouth barely opening to offer a more suitable reply when he started speaking again.

“I’m not buying it,” he said. “You’ve been acting like someone jerked a knot in your tail ever since you walked in. So-- out with it.”

At that point, all eyes were on her. Hsu, Dahtri, Kieran-- even the junior officers were looking her way, letting her know she had their undivided attention. It was like a bad dream, all told-- being wholly unable to remember what on earth was being said, and woefully unprepared to give an answer.

“If I may?” Hsu said, looking to her as if to ask permission. Answered with a gesture to continue, he said, “I think she’s trying to refrain from repeating herself.”

Oliver glanced at him, brow raised, though, ultimately, his attention landed squarely on Moore. “Are you,” he said. “That’s strange. ‘Polite’ was never really your style.”

Neither comment was the least bit helpful, mind, but Hsu interjected again to say, “You weren’t exactly pleased to hear a dissenting opinion on the terminal network,” which at least partly illuminated what it was they were talking about, “and it’s a dissenting opinion that I happen to agree with. The prototype you’re talking about is still running off the RobCo codebase.”

“It leaves us open to infiltration,” Moore said, feeling a touch more confident that she could respond appropriately. “Last I checked, our engineers promised stability, but cautioned that ‘functional’ didn’t necessarily mean ‘secure.’”

“Doesn’t mean we should leave it dead in the water,” Oliver replied, “and we’re not planning to do any front-line testing. Not now, anyway.”

The debate continued from there, devolving into a discussion that, yes, was fairly clear in her memory. But with both she and Hsu hammering the point home, the others were at least given some room to voice their own opinions on the matter. And while Moore kept pace with it, even as she struggled to care about what was said in a terminal network’s defense, one thing was certain: once the meeting was over, she owed Hsu one hell of a ‘thank you.’

It was a thought that should have been easy to retain. But, asked to remain behind as her peer and their subordinates filtered out, she found her focus instead resting on the pointed look the general had leveled on her, the sick feeling that she knew exactly what was coming keeping her pinned in place.

The thank you, it seemed, would have to wait.

 

 

* * *

 

  

 “I don’t suppose I need to ask what that was about,” Hsu said, once the door to his office had swung shut behind him.

“You don’t,” Moore replied, making her way back to the cot, snapping out the words more brusquely than she’d intended. “But,” she continued, “I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know that I’m almost certainly going to be given orders to stay put when the next meeting is scheduled.”

He paused-- just enough to let her know that the tone, the sentiment, had caught him partly off-guard. “’Pleased’ isn’t really the word I’d use for it,” he said carefully.

The caution injected into the words more galling than it should have been. And though she knew better than to answer, to goad him--

“What word would you use, then?” she asked, easing herself down onto the cot, and pulling her pack up onto her lap.

“Concerned,” he said, pulling his chair from the nearby desk to take a seat by the cot. “Mostly about what was said.”

“I’m sure,” she said, unlatching her canteen from the pack.

“I’d hope so,” he said, opting to take the vitriol at face value. “As it stands, I question the wisdom of having us all in one group regardless of who happens to be there. Give it time, and that kind of opportunity will be too good to pass up.”

It should have eased her, hearing that. Might have, at one point or another. Instead, she found herself twisting off the cap of her canteen and raising it to take a swig, primarily in the interests of keeping her knee-jerk response from receiving airtime.

“And while it’s true,” he continued, “that I have some rather specific concerns where it comes to you personally - concerns that I don’t feel are entirely unwarranted, given the Legion - deciding what you are and aren’t capable of is your call, not mine.”

Moore frowned, fixing him with a look. “Spare me the bullshit, colonel,” she said. “We both know that you’re perfectly willing and able to make recommendations to the contrary, as you see fit.”

“I am,” he said, “but you’ve never given me reason to consider it a viable course of action.” A pause; then, sensing that was going unsaid was liable to bite him in the ass, he said, “Not until today, anyway.”

Paradoxically, _that_ eased her; gave her reason to sip at her canteen rather than slug it down in an attempt to drown out all the petulant responses that had come to mind thus far.  Where red meat was concerned, he wasn’t throwing her much of anything that she could sink her teeth into, leaving the lingering agitation unaddressed.

Gave her time to cool down, and say, “Well-- at least you’re honest.”

“I try to be,” he said, “even when I’m fairly certain that it’s something that you’d prefer not to hear, and, for better or for worse, I’d like to think that my track record bears that out.”

It was gently stated. Not a rebuke; more a reminder of who it was she was speaking to. Granted, there was still a small part of her that rallied against it; wanted to fight him on it, give herself something to tear into, but she knew better than to believe that the impulse was anything but woefully misplaced-- for what little good that did her. Made it hard to blame him when, as the silence settled between them, he took some time to watch her, gaging again how best to approach whatever it was he had to say.

That it was, “Can I ask you something?” came as no surprise.

Capping her canteen, and focusing her attention on strapping it back onto her pack, she said, “That depends on what it is, I suppose.”

“It’s a personal question,” he said. Paused, then amended, “An important one.”

She looked up at him; found herself hesitating. Knew, at least in part, what that question was likely to be.

Even so, the, “Go ahead,” was all but obligatory.

He met her gaze; leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, adopting an earnest look to him that put her more on the defensive than she would have preferred, and said, “Why did you decide to make the trip today?” When she didn't answer immediately, he said, "I know you, Cassandra," the use of her given name prompting a subtle arch of her brow. "You don't take chances like this."

It wasn't the concern that gave her pause, or brought what remained of her temper to heel. Wasn't anything akin to good humor that brought a lopsided smile to her face, either, her gaze dropping down towards her lap. Hsu didn't need to ask why; breathed a soft laugh through his nose not a moment later, his head bowed to look at his own loosely clasped hands.

"Believe it or not," he said, "I wasn't planning on repeating myself."

"I know," she said. Then, after a moment: "Neither was I."

 

 

* * *

 

 

_I know you, Cassandra._

Before, it was, "I've never known you to take chances like this, colonel," stated with a thread of impatience that ran contrary to Hsu's usual demeanor. "So, I'll ask you again: is there something here that I'm missing?"

 _Leaving aside for a moment that you've barely had time to know me at all_ , were the first words that came to mind. They wouldn't have helped the situation; wouldn't have done a damn thing to dissuade whatever it was that was coming her way.

"I'm not sure what it is that you think you're missing," was, in the end, all she could think to say. "I saw an opening, so I took it."

She'd been his subordinate then; given the 'training wheels' promotion of lieutenant colonel, until such time as they could trust her with her own command. That James Hsu was her direct superior wasn't an accident, in that respect, and she didn't doubt for a moment that her placement with him was meant to serve as a test for them both-- and as a gage on whether or not they could work together 

It was owing to the latter being a definitive 'yes,' in the few months that they'd worked together, that she offered that one shred of honesty. Owing to the latter that she held his gaze for a time, didn't shy from the pointed inspection he made of her expression, her posture.

"An opening to do what?" he asked, finally.

She could have said that it should be obvious; could have been obtuse about it. It wouldn't have done her any favors; only prolonged the inevitable. So, too, did staying silent, but she found the words difficult to summon. When there was nothing one could say in their own defense, better, she supposed, to not say anything at all.

In the end, he'd probably say it for her.

And he did, in a way; loosing a sigh after he'd given her plenty of time to formulate a response, he crossed his arms, and leaned against his desk. "We knew going into this that the transition might be difficult," he said; would have been apropos of nothing, if she didn't already know what he was aiming at. "It always is. Rangers transferring in to regular army have a hard time getting used to the rank and file." A pause. "The thing is, you understood what you were up against. You accepted it, faster than most, and I’d like to take that adaptability at face value. So-- what changed? Was it the target? Or was it something else?"

That was the problem, wasn't it? The target. A Brotherhood detachment, spotted in the mountain range, one she'd rightly identified as a scouting party.

Would've been a simple matter to send troops out on intercept; gotten some of the rangers that had settled into the newly claimed Mojave Outpost to set up a raid on the scouts' camp. Instead, she'd insisted on suiting up and going in with the rest of them, even in spite of Sergeant McCredie's careful protests.

The fact that the mission was a clear-cut success wouldn't matter, in the long run. It was, as Hsu pointed out to her, that she'd gone at all, moving in without anyone there to countermand her orders, and no oversight to speak of. And now, she had to answer for it.

Funny; when first she'd contemplated stepping out of line to join the mission in the first place, she was certain she knew all the right things to say. Now--

"I'm not willing to let them clear path into the Mojave, sir," she said, "and from my perspective, we were running out of time."

"That's not an answer," he said; far calmer now than he was when the discussion began. "Or rather-- it is, but it's not an answer to the question I asked."

Again, he gave her time to speak-- and again, nothing came of it. How the man found the patience to live with that, she didn't know, but there wasn’t much to be done about it. Drawing a blank was all she could manage.

"Sergeant McCredie tells me you chased down the one Paladin they had with them on foot," Hsu continued, once it was clear there was nothing forthcoming; didn't comment on how chasing down anyone was a terrible idea, in and of itself, and didn’t ask about the blowback that may, or may not have caused. "Said the 'corpse' you mentioned in your report-- the one you claimed to have left behind, wasn't much of a corpse at all." A pause. "In your defense," he said, "he didn't say anything about any orders to keep quiet about it, even if he was a little uneasy about telling me what happened. In fact, he went so far as to say that you didn't say anything at all, after being informed of his findings. Is that true?"

It didn't surprise her that McCredie had talked; she couldn't even be all that angry about it. She'd had hopes that, perhaps, he'd be discrete-- but she wasn't fond of the idea of starting out her career as an officer with a noose hanging over her head.

To that end, "Yes, sir," was the only response she could give.

He studied her again, a subtle furrow appearing in his brow. "And did you have reason to believe the man was still alive?"

Moore paused-- then said, "He wouldn't have stayed that way for long." Another pause. "Just long enough to reach mid-day, if I had to guess. Assuming the local predators didn't get to him first."

There was something pinched about his expression, when he heard that. That wasn't surprising; he was the closest thing to a 'soft touch' that the military laid claim to-- had always been more on the logistics side of the equation. It was, so far as she understood it, the reason she was being trained up in the first place. They needed a equalizer.

Regardless of the politics surrounding that, she'd happened to agree-- but for the moment, it was neither here nor there. Might not matter at all, if the conversation went poorly.

And it seemed it might, given his next question. "Was there any possibility that he might have managed to send a distress signal?"

"I don't have any way to confirm that he did, or he didn't," she said, "but, if you spoke with the sergeant, then you're aware that I took steps to ensure that it wouldn't be as much of a problem."

"And by 'took steps,' you mean you removed his hands."

"Yes, sir."

She hadn't missed the gravity of the tone he'd taken to make that statement-- and unlike McCredie, Hsu didn't ask how she'd done it, though the answer was simple. Had the sergeant taken a closer look, he'd have seen that; seen the fusion of cauterized flesh and warped metal, characteristic of point-blank laser fire. Shots that he'd assumed had been fired at her.

She hadn't wanted the man to bleed to death that quickly-- any more than she'd wanted him to call for help.

"Why?" Hsu asked, as if in response to the thought itself. "Why take a chance like that? Why leave him for dead?"

Moore paused. That, at least, was an answer that came to her easily. Still-- “Is that a rhetorical question?”

He eyed her for a time; made it a point to meet her gaze, pinned her with a look that held her steady. “Whether it is, or it isn’t,” he said, “I’d still like an answer.”

She considered that, for a time; held his gaze without flinching, remaining as impassive now as she had when this began, but even then, the silence persisted. Kept her jaw tensed and her teeth lightly clenched, a taut thread pulling its way through her shoulders.

She’d never felt before like words could metastasize-- but they had, in their own way. Like a growth that refused to be dislodged, they lingered in her throat, the mere prospect of saying them aloud somehow more daunting than they’d been when she’d imagined, _planned_ for this moment in the first place. It had, rightly so, never occurred to her that she might be held hostage by some invisible force, and that alone riled her temper like nothing else.

In an instant, it became not a secret to be preserved, but an infection to be expelled, and Hsu’s voice, the cautious tone he took to say, “Colonel--“ served as the escharotic that pulled it to the surface.

It was a mistake, to be sure, blurting out the words, “Because that’s precisely what they did to me,” said with a deadly calm that sucked the oxygen out of the room.

Left her feeling curiously off-balance, her gaze dropping down to the floor between them, then to one side.

"You saw an opening," he said, "so you took it."

She didn't bother to nod; didn't bother with a _yes, sir_ , and, ultimately, didn't have to. At that point, there was little else to do but sit there, and wait for his final verdict to drop.

Except it didn't.

Instead, he asked, "Was it deliberate?" and did her the favor of keeping his tone straight-forward, rather than soft, of sympathetic. "Leaving you behind."

Didn't mean the question didn't burn, in its own way; that it didn't feel as though she was betraying something by nodding.

"And how long were you out in the canyon?" he asked.

"Long enough," she said.

"And does it feel any better?" he said. "Knowing you returned the favor."

She managed a weak smile; a soft breath out of her nose that might have been a laugh. "No, sir," she said-- and left it at that.

There came a pause; then the sound of a chair being pulled close to her own. She saw him seat himself across from her; saw him lean forward, hands clasped, expression earnest.

"Will it happen again?" he asked.

She looked up, then; couldn't keep the surprise out of her expression. Started to shake her head, but refrained for a time, letting herself think on it, instead.

Then, "No, sir," came softly, the  _n_ _ot under your watch_ appended to that answer going unspoken.

And she'd been true to that, she thought, even if she sometimes wondered if he lived to regret that conversation; lived to regret giving the all-clear for a full promotion. If stories filtering in about some of the clashes with the Brotherhood had made him think twice about making the offer he had. To work with her, if she was willing to talk to him. To smooth over the incident in a way that made him complicit in giving the orders. To give her the chance to refrain from ever pulling that kind of stunt a second time, with the understanding that it was the last chance she'd ever get.

He hadn’t gotten the whole story; even after numerous talks, and more than a few earnest heart to hearts, he had to know that.

Had to know, after so many years, that it was its own concession. Presented in good faith, yes, and she’d been true to her word that no further incidents would arise under his watch, but it was just another morsel, of the sort that had been fed to her evaluator-- partial truths that formed an incomplete picture.

The talk of other 'survivors' left in her wake, however-- maybe they formed the rest. Maybe they didn't. On those, he didn't comment. There were rules and engagement involved, after all. Codes of conduct that she’d been careful to put in place, either as part of her own pattern - at those times she'd given herself the opportunity to act on it - or in answers given to those subordinates that made tacit inquiries about whether or not the practice was still viable. No sexual assault or mutilation; no puncturing eardrums-- no severing tongues, no forms of prolonged torture that weren’t merely a side-effect of quick, and simple actions. The rest was left to the imagination of each respective executioner, and more than one had impressed her with the creativity they’d shown.

It all made for a powerful message, she thought-- one she hoped would reach the Paladin that had named her  _butcher_ , and stick with him until the day he died: _You should have killed me while you still had the chance._

She didn't doubt of for a moment that Hsu objected to the practice; that part of him bristled at it. But whether he didn't feel it was his place to say, or simply felt it was her path to follow, her life to shape, it didn't seem to matter. He was still there, and he was still listening.

Just seemed like a shame that she couldn't quite find the willingness to talk back. That, like before, she just didn't have the words.

And this time, she wasn't even sure she had the answers.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Are you planning on sticking around for a while?"

Moore paused close to the escalators leading up to the second floor of the terminal-- both to consider the question, and to ready herself for the climb. "I could, I suppose," she allowed, glancing up the steps and wishing, idly, that the damn things still moved. She'd been told they had, once upon a time. Looking back to Hsu, she said, "Why? Do you have a game planned?"

"We were thinking of setting one up either tonight or tomorrow," he said, "so, it might be a while before we can get one going, but I was hoping you might decide to join us."

She glanced around the terminal building as if expecting to see the other potential players milling around. "I suppose Hanlon's absence is a good sign that he's not looking to join up," she said, returning her gaze to him in time to see him purse his lips, just enough to avoid a smile. "Where are you planning on holding it?"

"Are you asking because you want to show up," he said, "or asking so you can avoid it?"

"I'm not sure yet." No use beating around the bush about it. "I have a reservation at the Vault, and I'd like to change clothes before I make any decisions. 'Drawbacks' or no, a nine hour walk is still a nine hour walk."

"Understood," he said, glancing up towards the escalator, himself, for a moment. "Next train to the Strip should be heading out within the hour or so, so you'll have time to think about it." Looking back at her, he afforded her a faint smile. "Assuming you haven't already."

She arched a brow at him. "Were you always this pushy?" she said, eying him for effect. "Or is this a new feature I was previously unaware of?"

"I tend to think of it as 'encouraging,'" he said, seeming to warm to the shift in tone.

"Well," she said, "you always were more optimistic than I was." Glancing one more time at the escalator, she said, "I'll be in touch," offering him a short nod as she made her way up the first couple steps, the leisurely pace seeming to work out better than she'd hoped, though she paused for a moment.

Thought to offer a thank you, but there were one too many soldiers milling around for comfort. Opted, instead, to afford him a look that she could only hope conveyed what she wanted it to.

Didn't occur to her until she was on the monorail, on the way towards Vegas, that his urging was its own tacit suggestion, played down for the sake of being out in the open. A means of cleaning the slate with their subordinates, rather than slinking off to some dark corner on the Strip to lick her wounds. She had, she realized, given them - all of them - room to speculate-- about her brief chat with Oliver, and the short lapse that had preceded it. They'd never say anything to her face, she knew, but the rumor mill had a way of making hay out of matters like these, and she was quietly ignoring one of the few chances she had to get ahead of it.

To own it, if she had to.

Until then, however-- though Hsu's assessment that she neither made easily avoidable mistakes or took unnecessary chances was a generous one-- well.

On both counts, he may well have been wrong.


	3. In Theory; In Practice

As strange as it might have been to say, it wasn't the blinding lights, the possibility of getting shanked - or worse - that made trips to the Vegas Strip a nuisance.

Rather, it was the paperwork.

Moore had long moved past the need to ask if it was necessary. She'd made a show of it, once or twice, as most of them did, but went through the motions, same as anyone. For officers and visiting officials both - be they military or civilian - it was a stop-gap that the general and the Joint Chiefs felt were necessary, even if it depended entirely on the answers being offered in good faith.

On arrival, it was easy enough for most of them to be honest. Time and date of arrival, expected length of stay, reason for visit, current amount of caps on hand-- Settled into one of the back offices that was often used as a changing room for those that weren't particularly keen on using the locker rooms for such things, she marked down her answers, and glanced over the rest of the sheet, landing on the questions clustered beneath the header, 'Upon Return.'

That was where things got tricky. For some of them, anyway. Beyond asking all the same questions, there were a few more tacked on that gave more than a few visiting officials cold feet.

At which hotel did you find lodging? Did you receive any gifts beyond the usual amenities offered to hotel guests? If so, what did you receive? At any time, did you feel as though you were being coerced, bribed, or otherwise manipulated? If so, please state the nature of the encounter, and describe what was being asked of you. Did you engage the services of any hotel employees during your stay? If so, please state the nature of the engagement.

The list went on from there.

It was meant as a preventative measure, of sorts. In practice, it was a means of establishing a timeline, something concrete that could be leaned on to supply an explanation for why an officer or lawmaker might suddenly be making calls that ran contrary to their usual, or seemed overtly favorable towards the Vegas Families. Moore had some doubts about its efficacy, if only thanks to the limited number of individuals that thought to consult the logs in the first place, but they'd at least been used to spot one or two instances of 'Familial' interference, such as it was.

So-- she, like others, put up with it. Unlike some of the others, however, she had yet to have a reason to lie 'Upon Return,' and few had reason to suspect that she would.

That was galling in its own right, admittedly, but, presently, she found it difficult to care about that. Setting the questionnaire aside, she thought only about the bath of clean, warm water waiting for her at the Vault hotel, and got up to check the lock on the door. Tugging on the handle to make sure it stayed put, she made her way to the uncomfortable office chair she had available to her, gingerly lowered herself onto it, and dragged her pack into her lap to dig out the clothes she'd brought with her.

Nothing fancy to start with; just enough to blend in with the locals, though she was bound to be recognized by one or two of them on sight. From there, she welcomed the opportunity to let her mind wander, thinking not of the events that had so recently occurred, but of what she might do with what little time she had available.

 

* * *

 

"How do you relax?"

"I don't."

It was a stock answer, at that point, one Moore's doctor had been none-too-impressed with.

He'd been touted as a pain specialist, of sorts, though she'd never been sure if the title was self-aggrandizing, or had been conferred to him by someone else. He claimed that what he practiced was a cross-section between pre-war palliative care and physical therapy, though she would often beg to differ. Words like _sadist_ and _torture_ often floated to the surface, which he didn't seem to think was all that uncommon.

That he had a habit of overstepping his boundaries, however - as was the case when the question arose - merely made him annoying.

It was a tendency characterized by his clarification, coming as it did on the tail end of clearing his throat: "I'm asking about your methods."

"Is that something I'm obligated to share with you?" she asked.

"No," he said, apparently unruffled, "not at all. But," he continued, gave flicking up at her from what she could only assume was a chart of some kind, "it'd help to know what your options are."

"They're minimal," she said. "Next question."

He lifted his head to regard her quietly. Didn't give any real sign of whether or not he liked her answer, and wasn't about to. Like him or not, the man had a hell of a poker face.

"Your pain is a messenger, Cassandra," he said, the obscene amount of patience he tended to show on full display as he fell back to a refrain that she was getting increasingly tired of hearing. "It's there to protect you. Getting angry at it, going tense, cursing at it, or treating it like an obstacle to be beaten will only make it fight harder to get the message through."

"Be that as it may," she said, "I'm not all that eager to talk shop with a man that I've been ordered to speak to."

He opened his mouth to reply, probably to say something about not being her enemy, no matter how hard she tried to back him into that particular corner, then paused; thought better of it. "I see," he said. "Would you be more inclined to speak to one of the nurses?"

She arched a brow, letting that stand in for any verbal response, and he, eager to retain the title of 'annoyance,' jotted down another note. Then another.

It wouldn't be until a few sessions after the fact that she'd be introduced to stretches and relaxation techniques that conformed to her 'methods,' and whether or not that was deliberate on his part, she didn't know, and didn't care to ask. As for his prodding about taking some time for herself-- the topic did come up again, as it often did. And when it had, she hadn't opted to give specifics; said only that she'd adopted a schedule for personal use, and aimed to keep it. No matter how she was feeling, she'd said, no matter what mood she was in, she'd follow it. Moreover, deviations would be additive, not subtractive.

It was only ever by dint of exhaustion that she'd missed an 'appointment,' but though exhaustion played a significant part in how she was feeling that night, it wasn't so prohibitive that she couldn't afford herself that one, small favor. And for as dry and impersonal as it seemed to set aside this particular form of self-care as part of one's schedule, as a routine to be followed, it had its merits.

More importantly, it had a certain kind of-- normalcy to it. The same kind of normalcy that came with drawing a hot bath; with scrubbing herself clean of all the dirt and grime that had accumulated that day. The Vault's water chip allowed it to come with the luxury of draining the dirty water out of the tub, and replenishing it with something cleaner, but that was a negligible detail.

In theory, it should have worked out for the better. She'd had plenty of bad days before, and had gotten along just fine.

In practice-- well. At first, it had seemed plausible. Even appealing, trading one reality out for another, and letting herself sink into it.

She'd allowed her eyes to drift shut; had taken a slow breath, letting the warmth of the water leech the tension from her muscles; let her fingers brush gently over the bare skin of her midriff as images began to unspool in the back of her mind. The scenarios had been fine-tuned, over the years-- a catalogue of her own making, with their own variations in intensity, and she took her time considering her options. The back corner of a dimly lit venue, maybe, be it a bar, or the winding corridor of a refurbished hotel. Tucked out of sight, but not so far away that there wasn't some risk involved-- risks a stranger whose face she couldn't see, whose interest in her overrode all thoughts of permission, or propriety, simply didn't care about.

It was the last part she snagged on, she found; less to do with setting, and more to do with intent. With a kind of hunger and bare-toothed intensity that was only ever matched by violence.

Feeling a twinge of hesitation that she couldn't place, and saw no need to dwell on, she toyed with that thought, for a time. Considered the theaters she'd fought in, the scenarios that came with them, and alighted on a dilapidated shack somewhere deep in the scrublands, outside Dayglo. She could recall the attack that came in the midst of that mission; could recall the heavy impact of two bound fists slamming between her shoulder blades, aiming to knock her off balance. Could remember the weight of a man - a convict, she'd thought, a fugitive - that seemed twice her size bearing down against her, aiming to smother and suffocate, his options limited by his restraints. He'd been subdued not long after, but even so--

It wouldn't be the first time she'd twisted that moment around; imagined instead arms attempting to catch her around the middle, and hold her steady. Had imagined a different sort of desperation riding up against the seam of her jeans as his weight leaned into her, fevered words resonant against the curve of her ear-- the kinds of words that, if she ever heard them spoken to her by anything other than this apparition, would have set her teeth on edge. But there, comfortably hidden behind tightly closed eyes, she could let it play out, knowing that what followed could only end one of two ways: either she would take him, or he would take her.

Simple as that.

Her fingers curled against her bare skin, and shifted carefully in the bath to keep her aching limb from generating more than the usual protests. Thought of twisting around to throw her would-be 'assailant' off her back; of catching him in a pin—of straddling him, grinding herself against him, her heat, her audacity, causing his breath to hitch in his chest, the muscles in his thighs going taut with the restraint it took to prevent an answering buck of his hips. He'd recover; fight back-- attempt to throw her off, to push her face down to the dusty ground, to catch one of her arms and immobilize her, and maybe he'd manage it. Maybe she'd let him; let him tear at her clothing, ripping denim free of bare skin, his hand wandering between her thighs to sample the state she was in, looking to coax sounds from her that few thought her capable.

She could feel the echo of it humming through her nerves-- a pale reflection of what it would become, but it was all she needed, the wry sparks of sensitivity invitation enough to let her hand drift down towards her lower abdomen.

As for the man certain of his victory-- Whether pausing to tease her, goad her, or hastily do away with what remained of his modesty, he'd make himself vulnerable to her. Give her the opportunity she needed to reverse their positions, to make the lie of her compliance clear to him, and take him for everything he was worth.

Except she didn’t; found, instead, the thoughts grinding to a halt, and giving rise to a hot flush over her skin.

For as electric as the effects always were, drawing from her a short, shuddered breath even as they fled from her entirely, all it took was a single observation to stop her dead in her tracks: _Is this your idea of a joke?_ Giving herself over to a presumptuous partner, whose acts of raw, demanding hunger would be transmuted into something far darker, into something that had no attachment to desire, were they made real? _And since when did this become in any way compelling?_

Her eyes opened, gaze focusing in on the ceiling. Her breathing calmed, even as the signs of what it had done to her remained. Minimal, but enough to be felt; a warmth, a wetness that hadn't yet been wicked away by the bathwater.

In spite of herself, she let loose a low, frustrated growl. Felt her jaw tense, her eyes snapping shut quickly enough to leave behind a hazy after-image of the overhead lights. Rather than entertain the self-recrimination, she instead took that moment to sink down beneath the water, willing it away with the rest of her senses for just as long as she could hold her breath.

Like it or not, it would have to be enough.

 

* * *

 

Moore didn't wait for her hair to dry. One of her few nods to vanity, beyond keeping a slender comb in the pocket of her slacks, was a conservative amount of makeup; little more than a subtle shade of eyeliner, and some other faint additions that rarely if ever garnered much attention. The clothing had been easier to handle, though only just, the sleeves of the dress shirt rolled up, the buttons brought down just far enough to show the neckline of the undershirt beneath, the material tucked into the waistband of her other nod to vanity: a pair of charcoal slacks that had been tailored to her specifically. Nothing fancy-- nothing particularly showy, either. Just enough, like the suitcoat she folded over one arm, to make her figure unambiguous.

She looked herself over in the mirror, ran the comb through her hair one last time, gave herself what amounted to a modest pep-talk - inwardly, anyway - and left her hotel room behind, no matter the rather fierce desire to stay put.

 _To hide,_ her thoughts informed her, having grown more damning and insistent after the false-start.

She ignored it, as she often did. Pain, internalized rebukes; for today, and tonight, it was all there to be ignored, or circumvented, pushed aside with each careful step towards the station. Maintaining a measured gait was the only thing that mattered, that _could_ matter, and she managed that just fine; even took the time she needed to exchange a few remarks with the MPs for the second time that day before taking a seat, and declaring it a small victory. There was even the subtle vibrations of an incoming railway car by the time she'd settled in, putting her just a little closer to fulfilling her minimal obligations for the evening.

But then came the shriek of wheels against the track as the brakes engaged, the whine of rusty doors sliding open, and Moore found herself met with a look of bemusement that she could only imagine was mirrored in her own expression.

Ranger Ghost.

Arguably the last person that she wanted to see that night.

 

* * *

 

The NCRAF was struggling to get out of its infancy when they’d met, taking the first steps towards creating something resembling a more traditional rank and file.

Back then, it wasn’t common for a girl of sixteen to be recruited, but it wasn't as if she'd been the only one. Was decidedly less common for that same girl to be handed a promotion to NCO one year out from her first day in, and was practically unheard of in recent years, but it happened. And when it happened to her, she’d welcomed it without question.

The news came to her not days after her squad leader had eaten a volley of bullets, stray bits of the man’s scalp and matted hair still doggedly clinging to her shoelaces, in spite of her best efforts to make herself presentable. The brass had heard about what happened, they’d told her; about her push to take charge, rally her squad, and carry on with the mission.

“They’re looking to fast-track people like you,” they said. “Make it a point to show ‘em you’re consistent, and you can look forward to more of that in the future.”

It was all quite flattering, but the flattery was shallow, at best. She had demanded to join infantry, after all, and the one thing that hadn’t changed, in all her years of serving, was this: infantry didn’t get nice things. Not without a price to pay. She could only assume that her superiors were convinced that she’d go the way of most people within that MOS: dying in an exceptional hurry. Why not give her her own squad? Let her go out in a blaze of glory? Grunts were, after all, expendable, so far as the brass was concerned, and more importantly, they were easily replaced.

Had anyone asked her, at the time, if she’d cared about any of that, she would have said no. Would have ignored the rattlers in her stomach, ignored the dim sense of the writing on the wall the promotion pointed to, and stated that it was an honor to serve.

Even where she was concerned, 'young and dumb’ was an adage for a reason.

She was still following in her mother’s footsteps– her father’s footsteps. Had some abiding sense of patriotism that hadn’t yet been toned down to any semblance of realism, and neither her mother nor her father were alive to disabuse her of the fantasies she’d joined with. True, the grind of a year’s worth of service had allowed a shred of reality to creep in, but the promotion had put a stop to it. Had given her even more reason to foster a false sense of superiority that could, it turned out, be rigorously enforced. Patently full of herself, she no longer hesitated to establish rank order by force when things got out of hand, and the members of her squad only reinforced her with their compliance.

Meant it was high time for a wake-up call, and when it came, it came en force.

It wasn’t, after all, by chance, or by virtue of their reputation, that the squad had their first brush with the NCR Rangers. No, that happened as it often did with fresh recruits: as the result of an easily avoidable mistake.

It was on the outskirts of the southern Tijuana ruins that she’d gotten it in her head to show some initiative. They’d spent days tracking Jackals along the edges of the city, watching their movements, radioing back what they were seeing to their superiors. Day in and day out, they were told to wait. And day in and day out, she could feel her impatience growing. They could be picking off these stragglers without issue; could be putting an end to whatever threat they posed, the notion that she might have been brought into the assignment to prove she had some versatility escaping her utterly. So she gave the order: when next the Jackals appeared, they would get into position, and start shooting.

“We don’t even know why we’re here,” one of the privates said, a hand-wringing young man by the surname Michaels. “I mean– we don’t know what taking potshots might do.”

He was the only one to raise an objection. In hindsight, Moore often thought that she ought to give him a retroactive commendation for that. Showing common sense at that age, under those circumstances, deserved  _some_  sort of recognition.

Needless to say, that common sense went ignored– and as the first volley was fired into the pack of grime-streaked raiders, she knew that she should have listened to him. More appeared– and for every raider that fell, it seemed like there were three more to take his place. The squad fell back, disappearing behind the rubble they had relied on to keep them hidden, knowing full well that they’d be followed.

Then came the shouting. Panicked barks rising up over the ten foot slabs of upturned asphalt that served as a barrier between Moore’s squad, and certain death. More gunfire, the sound of each report splitting through the valley of concrete the Jackals had been lured into. Even to the young sergeant and her subordinates, it sounded like there was more than one shooter, the breathing room that one revelation afforded them allowing Moore to assess the damage. Michaels and Langston would both need medical attention, though they were by no means in danger of losing their lives to their injuries anytime soon– Moore, Parker, and Ramey had only scrapes and bruises from tumbling into the jagged trench they’d retreated to.

It was, she knew, all a function of sheer luck, and little else; sheer luck that she’d gotten the raiders into position in the first place. And it was practically a miracle that the one and only ranger assigned to keep watch had been an exceptionally talented sniper.

Moore had stammered out her apology when the pale woman had dropped into the trench they occupied. Had stated her thanks. Had admitted to being the one to give the order to shoot and, before the next words had so much has formed in her mouth, found herself lying flat on her back, with little to no comprehension of how it’d happened. The only thing she could grasp, in that moment, was that 'seeing stars’ wasn’t just a childish euphemism.

That standing there on the monorail platform, looking that same woman, would feel like just as much of a punch in the face? Seemed only too fitting.

It was, she reminded herself, that kind of day. 

 

* * *

 

Ghost actually grinned, seeing her there. "Well, hey, stranger," she said, stepping out of the monorail car and onto the platform, making way for the other passengers moving around them. "Didn't think you'd be up and about."

Moore took a moment to find her voice, well aware that her bemusement would only keep that grin cemented in place. "I'm not sure what you mean by that," wasn't what she'd have called putting her best foot forward, mind, but it was something. "Should I not be?"

Ghost shrugged. "Hsu was pretty sure you weren't coming back," she said. "Something about a nine hour walk that had you dragging your tail something fierce. Even offered me your seat, in case I felt like sticking around."

"Did he." Well. If she needed the functional equivalent of dunking her head in icewater, the thought of what the game might have turned into with the sniper in attendance certainly qualified. "I take it you had other things to attend to?"

"Well," Ghost said, "that depends."

"On what?"

There was that grin again. "How much time you have for a drink." Ghost cast a quick glance over her shoulder at the still-open doors; allowed her expression to sober to add, "Assuming you're not heading out, I mean."

Moore paused, at that; let her own gaze gravitate towards the doors. "I was thinking about it," she said, rather than assume the glance had gone unnoticed. "Did Hsu seem to think the game was definite?"

Ghost shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine," she said. "Wouldn't mind tagging along if you were buying in, though. It's been-- hell, it's been years, now."

Moore took the time she spent suppressing the rather inappropriate urge to laugh on adopting a considerate look, allowing for a moment or two to pass before she allowed herself to speak. "A drink does sound a little more appealing than a card game, admittedly," she said. "And," she continued, returning her attention to Ghost, "it's not as if it can't be rescheduled."

"Glad to hear it," Ghost said, though the smile had faded. "Got anywhere in particular that you feel like heading to?"

 _Good question._ Moore gave herself a moment to think that over, and said, "The Vault cafeteria isn't too crowded, at this hour. Does that sound amenable to you, or would you prefer someplace else?"

Something about that must have struck the sniper as funny, though she didn't say what. "If it's got a fully stocked bar, then it’s fine by me," she said. "Now, come on. My dogs've been barking since I passed by the 188, and if I don't park my ass somewhere soon, I can just tell I'm gonna regret it."

Moore breathed a short laugh, at that. Couldn't help it. The thought that came to mind, however - _makes two of us_ \- went unspoken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering why, in spite of her in-game dialogue rather clearly stating 'officer' when she gives you bits and pieces of her background, she got downgraded to sergeant instead of lieutenant in that last bit, it's because the idea of a 17 year old lieutenant in charge of a single squad shorts my brain out. That, I didn't want to do the backflips necessary to talk shop about the differences between the modern US Army, and the NCRAF.


	4. Domesticated

“Whiskey neat?”

Moore looked away from the departing waitress; turned her attention instead to the woman sitting across from her in the corner booth, her brow arching.

Ghost shrugged. “Just figured you’d go for something stronger.”

To that, Moore made no comment, allowing for a suitably brief period of silence before saying, “Should I ask what brings you into town? Or is that going to remain a mystery?”

A lopsided smile appeared on the sniper’s face. “Why?” she said. “You starting to wonder if it’s just you I showed up for?”

Moore paused, fixing Ghost with a look. “I know there have been rumors floating around that I’ve developed a suitably overinflated ego,” she said, “but just so we’re clear, no. I’m not.”

“Good,” Ghost said, “’cause I wouldn’t. Timing might’ve played a part in when I decided to go, but--“ She shrugged, as if the remark was of little interest. “Mostly, I’ve just got some maintenance to take care of.”

“Maintenance,” Moore repeated, though it took little more than saying the word aloud for the meaning to dawn on her. “Your eyes, you mean.”

Ghost nodded. “Could use a tune-up,” she said, leaning forward, arms crossed over the table top. “Headaches started popping up again.”

Wasn’t unheard of. Spending any amount of time with Ghost was more than enough to give anyone a crash course in the drawbacks of albinism. There were methods of mitigation the sniper had undergone at an early age, but she’d made it clear that mitigation had its own downsides, not the least of which were headaches triggered by the Followers' implants that, so far as anyone could tell, had worked wonders. Corrected for the nystagmus, and the extreme near-sightedness common with the condition, though there wasn't much to be done about the lack of pigmented irises, and what that meant for harsh lighting, save the use of sunglasses. Or, so she’d been told.

She had only one source for that particular piece of information, and, presently, she was looking at it. Still, it wasn't as if there was room for doubt; the ill effects caused by lighting, Moore had seen first-hand, and she somehow doubted that the problem had been fixed, in recent years.

Something to be learned from that, she supposed - something about not being the only one with problems - but she didn't put too much thought into it.

_Anything to keep the self-pity ratcheted up to maximum effect, mn?_

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes at what promised to devolve into another round of petty recriminations, Moore said, “It’s not the sunlight that’s getting to you, is it?” even if it seemed a ridiculous question, once she said it aloud. All but obligated her to add, “I’d heard from Knight that you were being given more day shifts than usual.”

Ghost afforded her a purse-lipped smirk, one brow raising. “Been checking up on me, have you?” she said, though she was mercifully quick to sober upon catching sight of the incoming waitress out of the corner of her eye.

“Not intentionally,” Moore said, nodding her thanks once their drinks were deposited on the table. She waited for as long as it took for the woman to get out of earshot before she spoke again, adding, “But-- I do get reports from your neck of the woods, from time to time.”

“Well,” Ghost said, “it’s kind of you to keep me in mind,” seeming content to take the dodge as a ‘yes,’ all the same, “but no-- it’s not the sunlight. Not entirely. Doesn’t help anything, but this--“ She trailed off; raised her shoulder in a vague shrug. “Hard to explain the difference, but-- trust me, it’s there.”

From there on out, it was-- strange, falling into what felt like a comfortable pattern after so many years. The chatter was--  maybe not pleasant, not with how the evening had gone so far, but it was close enough to the definition that Moore could feel herself beginning to relax, little by little. True, most of the discussion was about the state of the Mojave, and, true, there were probably better things to talk about than water cooler gossip, but it passed the time, and made it seem possible that a joint card game the following evening wouldn’t be the end of the world.

That was, until she’d fallen behind on the number of drinks consumed. Two to Ghost’s three, which had all but slipped her notice. Ghost, on the other hand-- 

“You really are leaning into this moderation thing, aren’t you?”

Moore glanced down at the drink in her hand, nearly drained, before turning an incredulous gaze back to the sniper. “Two in a little over an hour is ‘moderation?’”

“By comparison, yeah,” Ghost said. “I mean, I suppose a decade off the field’s bound to do anyone in, but--“

She let the thought trail off; punctuated it with a shrug, and another sip of her drink.

Moore, by contrast, did her best to keep her incredulity from shading too far into annoyance. “Keeping a respectable public profile isn’t quite the same thing as being ‘done in.’”

“Tell that to the girl I knew twenty years ago,” Ghost said, grinning. “Hell, by her standards, you’re practically domesticated.”

“And by mine, she was barely housebroken,” Moore said, bristling inwardly. “All things considered, I’m glad to be rid of her.”

It was Ghost’s turn to look incredulous, the smile tamed, though it remained visible. “Easy, there,” she said. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m just surprised, is all.”

“Well,” Moore said, “you shouldn’t be. A lot can change in ten years’ time.”

It was a bit more defensive than she would have preferred, leading her to lift her drink and take down the last, small sip, but Ghost did her the favor of breezing past it, the sniper's arms crossing loosely over her chest as she leaned back into her seat.

“Guess so,” she said, watching Moore quietly for a time, fingers drumming against her bicep. “And how’s that been going for you?” she said, raising her chin as if to indicate to something. “All those changes, I mean. Must be nice, having a whole garrison to call your own.”

“It’d be a mistake to call it ‘mine,’” Moore said, casting a cursory glance at their surroundings.

“And I wouldn’t ask if there were eavesdroppers,” Ghost sad, an easy smile spreading over her lips. “You already have-- whatever her name is--“

“Weintraub?”

“Her, yeah. You already have her do a sweep for bugs?”

“Of course,” Moore replied, brow furrowed, “but if you’re asking if I trust her to be as thorough as I’d like, then the answer is no.”

That earned a smirk. “I guess that’s fair,” Ghost said, waving the waitress back over so the two could place another order. Once that was finished, she said, “And,” continuing on as if they hadn’t missed a beat, “I _guess_ I can keep my questions more general, even if I’m pretty sure that your identity isn’t some big secret.”

“You’d be surprised how few people actually recognize me out of uniform,” Moore said, “but I suppose that’s besides the point.”

Ghost made a soft _mm-hmm_ over the rim of her nearly-emptied glass. Then, “Also didn’t answer my question,” she said. “You never said how it’s going.”

“Fine,” Moore said.

Ghost arched a brow. “Fine,” she repeated. “Just ‘fine?’”

Moore mirrored the expression, and said, in as bland a tone as she could manage, “How are things at the outpost?”

Ghost quirked her lip; gave it a moment, then, grudgingly, said, “They’re fine.” It was only as Moore looked ready to speak again that she said, “But-- that’s different. The only excitement the outpost ever saw were those first few days we were moving in on it-- and that was about the only part I missed.”

“Your point being?”

“My point being,” Ghost said, “that ‘fine’ is its default setting. You, though? Shit, honey, you’re standing on the front lines.”

“And since when has ‘standing on the front lines’ spared anyone from profound boredom?”

Ghost paused; inclined her head in a vague concession. “Suppose Oliver _does_ have you in a holding pattern,” she said, “but at least you’ll be nearby when the fighting breaks out.”

“Oh, there’s no doubt about that,” Moore said, “but, in the meantime, I have the singular honor of watching the Legion put the finishing touches on their new accommodations.”

Ghost snorted. “You’d be doing something about that if you weren’t hogtied like the rest of us,” she said, an unmistakable thread of bitterness surfacing in her tone, “but, alright. I guess that’s fair.” A pause; a recalibration, as it were, brought on by a subtle slump of her shoulders. “Just realize that, to me? Seems like anything’s better than that goddamn bullpen.”

“You’d be surprised,” Moore said. “Or-- I suppose you wouldn’t be, all things considered.” Raising her glass only to again realize that it was empty, she set it back down on the table, and pushed it aside, glancing towards the waitress to get a sense of what the hold-up was. “In any event,” she said, turning her attention back to Ghost, “there’s not much to do at the moment but ensure that all my men are in peak condition.”

Ghost smiled, its leering quality far form missed. “I bet,” she said, tone matching the look.

Moore paused, shooting the sniper a wearied look. “Is that really necessary?”

“Please,” Ghost said, still grinning. “You can’t just set yourself up like that and expect me to ignore it.”

“Expect, no,” Moore said, “but one would hope that a woman your age wouldn’t insist on clinging to such a juvenile sense of humor.”

The smile faded, incredulity taking its place. “Got some extra snap in your garters tonight,” she said, brow raising. “That new, too, or is that just for me?”

No matter her growing impatience, Moore took a moment to calm what was liable to be a decidedly more-- fractious response, and said, "It shouldn't come as a shock to you that I might not appreciate that kind of insinuation being blurted out in mixed company."

Ghost paused; loosed a faint sigh, and said, "Yeah, all right," right about the time that the waitress returned with their drinks. As before, she waited for just long enough for the woman to get out of earshot before adding, "Suppose you catch enough static that you don't need me adding to it."

Moore did little to acknowledge the tacit apology, save to ease slightly, the testy mood leading to the drink set in front of her getting a rather wary look.

"Either way," Ghost continued, toying with the rim of her own glass for a time, "I'd warn against thinking you've got some kind of monopoly on--"

A pause. The sniper made a face, and for the first time since she sat down, Moore was forced to purse her lips to keep from smiling.

"You were about to say 'monotony,' weren't you?" she said, taking up her glass to swill the contents.

Ghost shook her head, ignoring the gentle ribbing to say, "Being me's not exactly a walk in the park, is all I'm saying," raising her glass to take a more conservative sip. "'Least you've got some authority to do more than stand around with your thumb up your ass. Out at the border, hell, they've got us all but domesticated," she said, that _word_ setting Moore's teeth on edge, "doing the jobs the non-coms and their staff should, 'cept the non-coms are off doing fuck-knows-what over in fuck-knows-where."

"Major Knight was asked to relocate a number of personnel to Bitter Springs," Moore said, finding it decidedly more difficult to keep her tone conversational, "for reasons that I shouldn't have to explain."

Ghost went quiet for a moment; seemed to deliberate over how best to respond, the pause suggesting that Moore hadn't been quite as successful as she might have liked in tempering her voice. For a time, still smarting from the repetition, she found it difficult to care.

"In any event," she continued, raising her drink, "it's not quite 'fuck knows what over in fuck knows where'-- and we're doing what we can to compensate for the loss where we're able."

"I get that," Ghost said, her tone taking a subtle downturn; a small cue all its own that she'd taken some mild offense. "And I get that you think the sun must've baked a hole in the back of my head, and, hell, maybe it has-- but trust me, you spend every day on that roof like I have?" She scoffed, throwing back a larger sip of her drink. "You'd get more out of watching paint dry."

"Oh, I'm sure," Moore said, unmoved, "and I'm sure Jackson appreciates your attempts to make it more interesting. That _was_ you I'd read about, wasn't it? Something about cooling your heels in the stockade?"

Ghost paused, frowning. "You bother to see what that was about?" she said, sounding uncertain of whether or not she should be annoyed, or merely concerned. "Or did Jackson leave that out of the official report?"

"You know as well as I do that the reasons don't matter," Moore said. "He shouldn't be expected to tolerate one of his subordinates abandoning her post, least of all for what should have qualified as dereliction of duty."

The slow burn of irritation shaded to bemusement, Ghost's brow furrowing. The sniper wasn't saying what was immediately coming to mind, seizing on the threads of sobriety she still laid claim to in an attempt to suss out what it was she was seeing. Wasn't attempting to hide it, either.

"You mind telling me where this is coming from?" she said, after a time. "I mean, I get it. Things change. It's been a while. But last I checked, you and I were on good terms. Weren't we?"

"We were."

"So what happened?"

"Well," Moore said, "clearly," the bite in her words coming out a bit too plainly for her liking, "one of us got domesticated, and the other didn't."

At that, Ghost's brows raised, that one missing piece snapping neatly into place. "You know I didn't mean anything by--"

"Didn't you?" Moore said, even the gently stated reply having enough teeth to it to stop the sniper short.

More of that studying; more questions along the way. Easy enough to see them brewing, sunglasses or no, and she wasn't certain she wanted to be around to field all of them. Easy enough to feel all the apprehension that had been with her on the monorail platform sink right back in, like a chill that bit clean through to the bone.

"I should go," she said, fishing in her pocket to throw some NCR scrip onto the table, covering the tab and, hopefully, matching her usual tip. Carefully moving to the edge of the booth, she said, "But, for what it's worth," and rose to her feet, "it was nice to see you again."

Ghost just watched her, frowning. Didn't, at least, do her the disservice of letting that gaze drop down to the source of the evening's petulance, but it wasn't necessary. She was a puzzle to be solved now, and she didn't doubt for an instant that she'd be let off the hook so easily. But there was nothing; no questions, no interruptions. Just a nod, and a tip of the ranger's glass to see her out the door.

 

* * *

 

 

Had there ever been a time, Moore wondered, leaning back against the door to her room, her hands raised to rub her face, that she'd been so uniquely caught off-guard?

Had there ever been a day in her life so perfectly characterized by misstep after critical misstep?

None would prove to be the end of the world, but the phrase 'death by a thousand cuts' had surfaced not long after the door had slid shut, and for what must have been the third time that evening, she'd felt her face go hot. Brushing her hands upwards, she pressed her fingers against closed eyelids, allowing for the beginnings of colorful streamers to appear in her vision before letting the pressure ebb, her hands falling back against her sides.

Pushing herself off the door as, already, the first of her many mistakes was seeing it fit to complain, she made her way to the small twin bed situated against the wall, and seated herself, her hand gravitating towards the ruined muscle beneath her slacks. She could feel the scar tissue-- thought, for a moment, that she could feel the throb of her heartbeat, but dismissed it with a measured breath, and a slow, beleaguered sigh.

"Just how much trouble are you planning on getting me into, anyway?" she said under her breath, as if the scar tissue might be capable of offering an answer.

Unsurprisingly, it wasn't, and it didn't, unless the vague ache that came with the shift of her leg counted as a response.

It was enough, though-- enough of a reminder that she had every reason in the world to get some sleep, even if that, too, came with its own brand of risk. Casting a glance at the door, she briefly debated putting a call in to Weintraub to run intermittent alarms through the control panel by the door, if only in the interests of breaking up anything her subconscious might throw at her but, ultimately, decided against it. She did, after all, have just enough alcohol in her system to warrant pursuing the tried and true method of drinking her dreams into oblivion-- and though that might lead to some interesting acrobatics where her mood was concerned, it seemed - at the moment - like a risk worth taking.

But later, she thought. For the moment, she put the bulk of her attention on prepping her leg for the exercises she could manage. Oblivion, as inviting as it was, could come later.

 

* * *

 

 

"Heard you'd been turned inside out."

It was the first time Moore had ever heard the platinum ranger speak, and the sound had startled her. She'd been on the lookout for her savior-turned-assailant upon hearing from one of her squadmates that she'd been spotted in base camp, not long after their return from a particularly grueling mission, and was in no mood for getting her feet held to the fire.

Literally or otherwise.

Setting herself down next to the young sergeant, by a camp fire that had been cobbled together next to a small collection of tents, the ranger held a flask in-hand, the dull silver reflecting the flickering amber light. "What on earth did you get yourself into this time?" she asked, lips quirked upwards in a smile that betrayed wry amusement.

Moore hesitated; debated, for a time, if she was about to be taken for a ride. The ranger must have seen it; let her demeanor shift to suit the response, the smile tamed to something more personable. It helped, somewhat, but not entirely, the memory of having been decked and thoroughly chewed out still fresh enough to call the display into question.

"I'm not looking to rub your face in it, whatever it is," the ranger said, then. "Just looking to show up with a peace offering," this, illustrated by a raise of the flask, "if you're willing to take me up on it."

Moore's brow furrowed. "Why?" she said. At the odd look she received in response, she said, "Why the peace offering?"

"It's the closest I'll get to an apology, for one thing," the ranger said, the smile widening again. "For another?" She twisted open the flask. "Brass seems to think we work well together. Wants me to hook up with your squad to take a more-- how'd they put it? 'Proactive approach' to the Jackal problem. So--" She handed over the flask. "Since we're gonna be working together--"

Moore hadn't quite made it past 'working together,' all told. Had kept staring at the older woman, her incredulity apparent.

"You gonna keep staring at me, or--?" The ranger trailed off, bobbing the flask in front of her.

"I--" Moore paused; reached out hesitantly to accept the offer, the whiff of moonshine nearly strong enough to make her flinch. Nearly-- but not quite. "Since when did that count as 'working well together?'"

"Since I realized you were seventeen," the ranger said, "and made it a point to cover for you."

"Oh." Another pause. "Why?"

"Thought the 'seventeen' thing was self-explanatory," the ranger said, shrugging. "Name's Ghost, by the way."

Moore arched a brow. "Just Ghost?"

"So far as you, or anyone else is concerned?" Ghost nodded. "That's all it is."

That eyebrow stayed arched for a moment or two longer, after which Moore raised the flask-- and instantly thought better of it. She could handle most hard liquor, but thanks to a raid on her uncle's hidden stash that had ended in what could only be called unmitigated disaster, moonshine still had a way of making her stomach lurch.

Grimacing, Moore said, "Can we still call it a peace offering if I take a pass?"

Ghost smiled. "Sure," she said. "I trust you to say no on your own terms."

It was a strangely complimentary stance for the ranger to take, given how they'd met. It would also, Moore discovered, become something of a running theme.

 

* * *

 

 

Ghost had never been particularly talkative about her upbringing, but nor had she been exceptionally cagey about it. If someone had a question, they only need but ask. If the answer was 'fuck off,' then so be it. Questions about her family, her name, however-- those were answered bluntly, the tale short, and to the point.

Born to a small family in Modoc, her albinism had sparked a feud with an emissary of the nearby Slags, her father almost certain that his wife had been cheating on him.

"She tells him no, he's the only person she's ever been with," Ghost said, over one of many nights of trading the flask back and forth. "He starts saying, well, she must've been raped, 'cause no kid've mine could look like that. She says no, she'd remember something like that, and next thing anyone knows, she's stinking up the well water." She shrugged. "I wasn't old enough to remember it," she said. "Had only been alive and kicking for about a year when it happened. But with my father kicked out and forced to fend for himself, the town had to figure out what to do with me, so-- I don't know, I guess Jo was looking to lay the irony on thick, 'cause he hands me to the Slags anyway. Figured I'd do better with them than I would up topside."

She'd said the name - Ghost - was one she'd blurted out at recruitment. A send-up to the 'Ghost Farm' the Modoc residents had been so concerned about. And, sure enough, so far as the NCR's records were concerned, 'Anna Ghost' was her legal name.

"Slags weren't real big on surnames," she said, "and I wasn't gonna keep my old one anyway. Or my given name, for that matter." She shrugged. "Relic from my father," she said. "Means about as much to me as the shit I took this morning."

There wasn't much else that was said about the Slags, or her time spent with them. She seemed to regard it as transitory; a chapter of her life that held little in the way of sentimentality, and little in the way of connections. That much, Moore could relate to, and was pleased to discover that much of their time was spent on other topics. There were no questions about what drove her out of her home at such a young age; no assumptions about what that might have meant, or concerns about what her non-answers implied. Between the two of them, it was a favor given, and a favor returned, adding fuel to the already potent desire to live up to the ranger's expectations-- expectations that were made clear by the decision to remain silent on the matter of the young sergeant's mistake.

That alone had lead to a streak of accepting challenge after challenge at her own expense, be they spoken or not, from drinking contests to accepting 'handicaps' on any given coffee and cake run the brass had decided to assign to her. And though a multitude of those challenges came with inherent dangers, Ghost had - assuming they didn't endanger the lives of anyone other than the young sergeant, herself - considered them little more than object lessons, some more entertaining than others.

"Best way to show someone what not to do is to let 'em fuck up in their own way," she said simply, "even if it's 'over and over again.'"

But she'd always been there to ensure the young sergeant's safety. Had always been there to pick up the pieces, one way or another; to keep things from going too far. And always, without fail, had listened when eventually it came time to say 'stop.'

The chime at the door to Moore's hotel room, however-- that signaled, loud and clear, that the streak of 'without fail' had come to an end.

 

* * *

 

It was around the fifth consecutive chime that Moore finally relented, getting up off the bed to key the lock code into the door panel. The hydraulics engaged, the door hissed open, revealing the sniper standing at the threshold, holding a bottle of scotch and a pair of glasses that went poorly with the unreadable look on her face.

"Think I can come in?" she said. "Or would you rather have a staring contest first?"

Moore paused for a time, too fatigued to come back with much of anything, and, offering a look that reflected as much, said, "What are you doing here?"

"Just got to thinking," Ghost said. "Mostly about the fact that I'm not too thrilled with how all that ended."

Moore _mn_ 'd faintly, affording the bottle a sidelong glance. "I'm not sure more alcohol is going to make it end any better."

"Maybe not," Ghost said, "but a couple doses of fixer says it's worth a try." She sobered, then; and before a word could be gotten in edgewise, she said, "Listen-- I don't have a whole lot of time before I have to hoof it back to that overglorified toll booth, and whatever it is that's going on-- I'd like to make it right while I'm still in the neighborhood." Another pause; another subtle shift in her expression, a softness there that hadn't been present before. "Don't worry," she said. "Past this little intrusion? I plan on sticking to the rules."


	5. This Warmth Has a Memory

The drinks were poured, the lights dimmed to a level that allowed Ghost to set aside her sunglasses and rest her eyes. Both women had arranged themselves in as comfortable a fashion as the situation allowed, Moore perched on the bed, Ghost pulling up a chair to face her. Handed one of the glasses, Moore took a sip, noted the quality of the scotch, and arched a brow, gaze flicking up in the sniper's direction.

"Is this going on my tab?" she asked.

Ghost just smiled from behind the rim of her own glass, pausing to take a drink. Moore followed suit, mindful of the paradoxical mix of heavy limbs, and a kind of weightlessness that she'd come to identify as a staple of intoxication, over the years. It was, if nothing else, something to focus on as the silence settled between them, something other than arranging her limbs in a way that best accommodated the still-present ache that hadn't gone quiet. Wouldn't go quiet, most likely, though at least now it had downgraded to being an annoyance, rather than a persistent threat.

In the end, she opted for drawing one leg up onto the bed, foot tucked close, its mate resting on the floor, lightly stretching the muscles that needed loosening the most.

Then, after several more moments of silence, she said, "What was all that about?" her question earning her a questioning look. "All that talk about 'being domesticated.'"

A slight grimace appeared on Ghost's face. That was expected; the near-instantaneous attempts to tame it, however-- that was what drew Moore's attention, even as a little voice in the back of her head told her not to pay it any mind. Absence had a way of stirring ill will, at times, but--

"It's just talk," Ghost was saying, easy enough that it could be believed. Should have been believable. "Just me running my mouth again."

"You say that," Moore replied, "but I'm having trouble buying it."

"Yeah," Ghost said. "Yeah, I got that. Didn't think I'd come off like that much of an asshole, but-- if I did, I apologize."

On that, the little voice got louder. 'I apologize' wasn't usually a part of the sniper's repertoire, and while the darker, decidedly paranoid collection of thoughts seized on it as further evidence of motives that barely made sense on the surface, it did quiet them, little by little.

Ghost must have seen it-- must have seen something, the lopsided smile telling in its own right. "But you're not buying that either, are you?"

"Not entirely," Moore said, much as her ego flinched at the admittance, "but I'm trying to."

Ghost studied her for a moment; didn't bother to hide it, either, her expression contemplative. "Used to be," she said, "I'd take that kind of thing pretty personal. Right now--" She paused. "Are you sure you didn't pre-game before we met?" she said. "'Cause I don't think I've ever seen you like this before."

"I didn't think I'd need to say this again," Moore replied, "but it's been ten years--"

"--And a lot can change in that time, I know," Ghost said, "but you getting all--" She paused. Seemed to think over how best to phrase it, and, ultimately, gave a slight shake of her head. "I don't know how to put it without sounding like I'm taking a swing. Touchy? Defensive?" Beat. "If that was your new normal, you wouldn't last as a CO for long."

"Goes to show what you know, I suppose," Moore said, lifting her drink to take a sip. Then another, just a touch larger than the last. "Oversensitivity tends to be a pre-requisite to getting promoted past captain."

Ghost arched a brow. "And there are probably easier ways to say 'fuck off, I don't want to talk about it.'"

"Well," Moore said, "I tried blunt, and that didn't seem to go over too well. Roundabout seemed to be my next best option."

"You sure you don't have the energy to try for a metaphor?" Ghost said. Earning a wearied look, she shot back a lopsided smile, and lifted her drink to take a sip. "I meant what I said, you know. That if you really want this to be over, you just need to say the word. Think I've got a pretty good track record for proving that I can handle it."

"You do, yes," Moore replied. "And I'm sure it helps that it was never all that difficult for you."

As before, the words were out before she could put a stop to them-- and, as before, she found herself blaming the drink in her hand. Knew better than to think it was entirely at fault, but-- for the moment, it made for a decent scapegoat, especially as the sniper lapsed back into silence, and started watching her again.

"Going back to something you said earlier, though," Moore said, then, ignoring the look it earned her, "about running your mouth?" A beat. "How about you tell me what made you decide to take that approach. Just to give me some idea of the thought behind it."

Ghost watched her a moment or two longer. Then, "All right." Beat. "But just so we're clear, we're gonna talk about what you meant by that."

"We'll see," Moore said; didn't feel any real desire to play dumb on what 'that' was, and knew better than to try.

Ghost considered that for a time; didn't bother to hide the fact that she was of two minds on the matter, her own glass lifted to take a swig. She almost raised it a second time, quite possibly to finish off the contents, and take her leave, but she paused. Leaned back in her chair, instead, crossing one leg over the other, elbow on the arm rest, glass held aloft by one hand while the other drummed out an idle, arrhythmic tempo.

Then came the question: "Do you know how many people I can talk to at the bullpen?"

"Considering you're leading with that question," Moore said, "I'm guessing 'not many.'"

"Aside from the occasional traveler?" Ghost said. "There's four total. Knight, Jackson, Kilborn. On the civilian side, there's Lacey. Everyone else gets rotated out-- usually around the time that I can actually remember what their name is. Here's the thing, though--" A pause. Then, "You remember how it was at the base in Bullhead? Everyone saying the same thing, having the same conversations, playing armchair strategist when something new came in from outside the wire?"

"I have some rather vivid recollections, yes."

"Well," Ghost said, raising her drink to punctuate, "that's more or less how it is. 'Cept it's wall to wall, 'til someone has one too many, and throws a punch at the guy next to him."

"So-- boring would be putting it lightly."

"Lightly," Ghost muttered under her breath. "It's the kind of place that makes you want to suck-start a shotgun." A pause-- a little wave of her hand. "I'm not talking literal," she said. "Not really my style."

Moore made a note to herself to check in on that, if only to serve as a distraction from the urge to say 'get on with it.' But even as the urge came and went, she couldn't help feeling-- petty? Seemed the right word for it, after all the ruminating she'd done that day. Still-- there were some grievances nipping at her heels. The kinds she'd been better off ignoring; that were easier to ignore when the sniper had made it a point to keep her distance.

Better that she had, Moore thought. Life was generally easier that way. Less complicated.

"I wasn't drunk when I got tossed in the stockade, you know," Ghost was saying; what she'd said prior to that, Moore couldn't be sure. "Might be on my record, but it's a load of horseshit, and Jackson knows it."

Moore arched a brow. "He's not exactly known for falsifying reports," she said, and caught a sour look in response. "Mind you, I'm not saying it's impossible-- but it's not his usual MO."

"Well," Ghost said, finishing off her drink, and stooping to fetch the bottle that had been set on the floor between them, "call this a special case," the bottle wedged between her thighs to screw the cap off.

"I'll have to, apparently," Moore said. "A dereliction charge is far from an idle accusation."

"Tell me about it," Ghost said under her breath, lifting the bottle to pour herself a shot. "Anyway--" she began, then caught sight of Moore's own glass held aloft. She paused-- then, "You want one or two?"

"One, please," Moore said, finding that leaning forward to rest her elbow on her knee did wonders to stretch the muscles in her leg.

May as well stay that way until her back started complaining, she supposed,  resting her chin on the heel of her hand, withdrawing her glass once the scotch had been poured, and raising it for another small sip.

"As I was saying," Ghost said, inserting the bottle back between her thighs to twist the cap back on, "I started seeing some scorpions up in the hills nearby, little too close for comfort, and I think, all right-- they'll probably scatter once they get downwind of the burn pits, and that'll be the end of it. 'Cept they're not leaving. God knows why; face full of shit fumes should be enough to scare anything off."

"Of ye of little faith," Moore said mildly.

Ghost afforded her a faint half-smile, and said, "Anyway, I figure it's only a matter of time before they start sneaking into camp, and--" Then she paused; slumped a little in her seat. "And," she said, "I'm getting bored just talking about it."

"To be fair, I'm getting bored just hearing about it," Moore said. That broadened the smile, at least. "Humor me anyway."

Ghost's smiled dimmed. "Long story short," she said, "Jackson was dragging his tail, telling me it wasn't a big deal, that we'd take care of it when we could. Except I know that kind'a talk, and I know 'when we could' is somewhere around the time that we're coughing up caps to some trader whose brahmin got a neck full of scorpion venom. And that's if we're lucky. So-- I get some of the enlisted, tell 'em we're going on a bug hunt, and that's what we do."

"Without his say-so."

"Got Knight to agree with me, at least," Ghost said, shrugging. "Jackson still lost his damn mind when we got back, though. Didn't even wait for the enlisted to scatter; decided he'd light me up right then and there."

"No casualties, though, I take it."

Ghost shook her head. "Morales got a scrape on his knee 'cause he slipped on some rocks, but it's not my fault the man can't walk a straight line." She paused, the smile fading entirely. Shaking her head again, she said, "I knew I shouldn't have opened my mouth. Should've just stood there and let him get it out of his system, but after a while--" She raised a hand to rub at her eyes. "He just wasn't letting up," she said, letting her hand drop, "and the more he says, the more I'm realizing, you know? If I don't say something, I'm gonna end up feeding this guy his teeth."

"Not to interrupt, but is he usually this bad?"

"Not like this," she said. "The way he was talking-- hell, the way I was feeling, it was like something broke. Years of frustration getting thrown in my face, like I was his new lightning rod."

"And he became yours."

Ghost nodded. "'Round about the time I'm itching for a fight, I decide it's better to just give as good as I get. Said I was tired of his bullshit. Said if he wanted to wait around at some cushy post, counting down the days 'til retirement, he could fuck right off to the Long 15 and let someone who's still got a pair take his place." She tilted her head, rubbing at the back of her neck, lip quirked. "Might've-- said something about the kind of contract work he could look forward to when he retired, too, but--" she made a vague twirling motion with her glass, "in for a penny," then raised it to take a sip.

"And you say all this in front of an audience," Moore said. A pause; then, "An enlisted audience."

Ghost gave a soft  _mm-hmm_  between thinned out lips.

"I'm sure that went over well."

"Went over great," Ghost said, still looking at her drink. "Not even a question in my mind that I'm getting slapped with insubordination."

"And you figure that if it's going on your record, you-- what? May as well make it count?"

Ghost smirked. "Wouldn't you?"

Moore shrugged, though she had to purse her lips to avoid a smile.

"Take that as a yes," Ghost said, and sobered. "Anyway-- here's where things go real south. As I'm winding down, he gets to sniffing around like some kind of bloodhound, and when I ask what the hell he thinks he's doing, he asks if I've been drinking. I just stare at him, 'cause what else am I supposed to do? Best I can figure is this is some face-saving bullshit, I'll get a slap on the wrist once it's over, and we'll move on from there, but--" Another vague shrug of her shoulder. "Next thing I know, I'm looking at a two-day vacation in the drunk tank. Just me, and the rats we can never seem t--" Noting the odd look she was getting, she paused; furrowed her brow. "What?"

"You didn't really expect to get away with  _just_  a slap on the wrist, did you?" Moore said; didn't bother to hide the incredulity in her tone, or her expression, however mild it happened to be. "Not after all that."

Ghost grunted. "I'm speaking relative," she said. "Sure as hell didn't expect to get tossed in the clink for it."

"So you say," Moore said, straightening, "but there was a time you might've gotten shot for it, instead."

"Yeah," Ghost said, "and if I had, I'd've shot him back." She paused. "Anyway-- I'm starting to run my mouth something fierce. What the hell was I even talking about?"

"Well," Moore said, "it had something to do with the angle you were coming from, but I think I have a clearer picture now. And," she sighed, "I suspect that this can only come down to a debate over which is worse. The bullpen, or the gilded cage."

"That depends," Ghost said. "Does the cage have air conditioning?"

Moore allowed for a faint smile. "Sometimes."

"Then there's your answer."

"Fair enough," she said. Then, "Mind you, I won't claim that we're in the same position--"

"Good." Catching the arched brow that came of the interruption, Ghost said, "I'd be tempted to risk a dishonorable discharge if you did."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I hear it's bad form to kick a colonel's ass in her own hotel room."

Moore pursed her lips. "What makes you think you could?"

"I know your weak spots, remember?" Ghost said, allowing a subtle grin to appear on her face. She sobered, then, and said, "Anyway-- you were saying?"

"Aside from the fact that it's a bit presumptuous to assume that I don't know yours?" Moore said, brow arched. "I was only saying that-- even if I won't claim we're in the same position, I can't say I don't sympathize."

"Good. 'Cause all that?" Ghost shook her head. "It's just me trying to commiserate, in about the only way I know how."

"I'd have said 'being an ass' isn't the best way to go about that," Moore replied, "but since you were gracious enough to explain, I suppose I take your meaning."

"Good," Ghost said. "'Cause so far as I was concerned, that was all a shot in the fucking dark. You're a colonel, for christ's sake. Probably gonna make general by the time this is over. Last thing I expected was for you to be gnawing at the same itch, and I sure as christ didn't expect you to get pissed. Me, though?" She scoffed. "After getting screwed out of a transfer by that bullshit dereliction charge, it's back up on the roof she goes. Out of sight, out of mind."

Moore sobered, at that. "I didn't know you applied for a transfer."

"I did," Ghost said. "Didn't specify where, just-- 'anywhere but here.' Anywhere that could use my so-called expertise."

"Well--" Moore paused; then, "so far as I'm aware, Hsu could use all the help he can get. It's possible--"

Ghost waved a hand. "McCarran was the consolation prize," she said. "Bottom of the list."

"Oh? Why's that?"

Ghost took a moment before she responded; bolted down the remainder of her drink, and glanced at the bottle on the floor again, though seemed to think better of it. "Honestly?" she said, keeping her attention on her drink, "If I never see another goddamn raider again, it'll be too soon. Never liked that detail, never will, but that's where I fit, so--" she shrugged; seemed to sink further into her chair, "that's where I fit."

"Not really the sort of thing I expected to hear," Moore replied. "Raiders were something of a specialty, as I recall."

Ghost's own expression soured. "Wasn't by choice," she said. "You know that as well as I do."

"Not-- really. Or, at least, I didn't get that impression while we were working together."

Ghost arched a brow. "How could you not?" she said. "Who in their right mind wants to be stuck on raider detail?"

"You never gave me any reason to think you were stuck in the first place," Moore said. "Granted, I got some strange looks I filed for transfers, but it would hardly be the first time that--" It was her turn to pause, courtesy of the odd look leveled at her. "What?"

"Transfer," Ghost repeated. "Wait-- transfers  _plural_? To where?"

"Where else?"

Ghost went quiet. Couldn't quite seem to wrap her head around what was being said, for a time, and even when she had, the silence persisted.

Then, finally, she said, "Why is this the first I'm hearing about it?"

Moore paused. "Is it?" She chafed only somewhat at the pointed look that earned her, and said, "I'm not being glib. I'd just assumed you'd heard about it, at some point, but-- I suppose it doesn't come as a surprise that you hadn't. Cordell was clear that he'd been the one to block my requests when I spoke to him about it."

"He, uh-- he say why?"

"It was about what you'd expect," she said. "I was earning more of a reputation with Brotherhood targets, both in tracking them down, and engaging them, so-- it seemed to him to be the better fit."

Ghost quieted again, that oddly mystified look settling back into her features. Wasn't too long before her head tilted against the backrest behind her, and she let out a light groan, her glass left in her lap as both hands raised to rub at her face.

"Goddamn," she muttered into her palms. "I always knew we were bad at talking, but this?" Letting her hands drop, she lifted her head, took up her glass to give it a frustrated wag in Moore's direction. "This is a new low."

"How do you mean?"

"How do I--" Ghost stared at her, dumbfounded. "It's been fifteen years!" she said, spreading her hands, what little remained of her drink sloshing against the glass. "How the hell did you go that long without telling me?"

"First," Moore said, "you might want to consider that the question was facetious, and second--" A pause. "The way you'd been behaving, I didn't think you wanted to know."

Ghost sobered, the dumbfounded look bleeding away from her features. She allowed for several long moments of silence to past, keeping her gaze locked on Moore's own, seeming to debate what to say or, maybe, what to ask. Where to start.

Or start again, one supposed.

"Only acted the way I did 'cause I was sure you'd moved on," Ghost said. "Figured those high-speed operators you hooked up with got to talking. Convinced you--" She paused, brow furrowing; shook her head, not long after. "I don't know," she said under her breath. "Got it in your head that you had better things to do than run around the frontier with some second-string sharpshooter."

Again came the silence, the both of them looking at one another, carefully assessing what to make of the turn the conversation had made. For Moore, it was a strange moment, almost transient-- feeling at once fully herself and, for a time, feeling the disappointment, uncertainty, and exhaustion of a younger woman at the cusp of her thirties.

She disliked it about as much as she disliked the aches and pains that had lead her here, but-- she was here, now. And, like it or not, she had company.

"I think," she said, breaking the tenuous silence, "'bad'-- might have been an understatement."

Ghost looked incredulous. "Might?"

"Is," Moore corrected. "A vast understatement." A pause. "Though--"

Another pause; another moment passed. Moore found herself caught by the urge to smile. Had to purse her lips to avoid it, the urge to laugh coming right along with it. It must have shown on her face, the fading incredulity and amplified curiosity settling into the sniper's expression speaking to that.

“Though?” Ghost prompted, brow raising.

Moore shook her head. “It's nothing,” she said. “Not really the best time for it.”

“Humor me,” Ghost said. "In the spirit of recognizing our mutual dedication to failure, just-- let it out."

She could refuse, she knew; say it was inappropriate, that it really  _wasn't_  the right time for it, but with the expectant look in front of her, and a laundry list of easily avoidable mistakes behind her, what was one more to add to the pile?

“I was just thinking,” she said, “that there was at least one instance that it worked out for the better.”

Ghost's confusion was evident. “Us-- being bad at talking?”

"Or omitting certain details," Moore said; let it hang there for a moment to see if the sniper would catch on. It was only when it became clear that wasn't happening that she said, “In my defense-- I've gone a ways past my usual limit,” tilting her glass to illustrate, “though I can't say the same for the night in question.”

That was when clarity set in-- then bemusement. Ghost cleared her throat.

“You're right,” she said. “That's a hell of a left turn.”

Moore  _mn_ 'd. “Can't say I didn't warn you.”

“No,” Ghost said, a little smile teasing at one corner of her mouth, “suppose I can't.”

 

* * *

 

 “We need to make camp.” The words had been shouted over the deafening clatter of sheet metal, caught by steady gusts of wind. “Think we should take our chances with that shack.”

“What shack?”

“Up ahead,” Ghost said, pointing straight ahead.

Cassandra squinted to see it through the veil of sand cutting across her field of vision. It was there, all right, a silhouette cast against the backdrop of an oncoming dust storm, its door slamming against its rusted frame, far from inviting. Held up on metal stilts that bore deep into the ground, it trembled and rattled, seemed to sway uneasily with what would be comparable to a passing breeze when the storm began in earnest. She’d larger trailers, in her time, but it was about the only shelter she could see, no matter how unsteady.

With a scarf held up to her mouth and nose, she shouted, “Doesn't look that sturdy, does it?”

“I did say 'take our chances,' didn't I?” Ghost shouted back, taking hold of Cassandra's upper arm to lead her towards the shelter. “Now, move. We don't have much time.”

Cassandra couldn’t have known, then, scanning their surroundings, noting the skeletal remains of what looked like a radio tower off to one side, what that shack would come to signify, any more than she knew what purpose it served. It was old world, that much she could see, a tiny refuge in the middle of nowhere that was home to nothing but the wilderness that surrounded it, signs of the animals that had come and gone over the years still left behind in the form of feathers, bits of fur, and the picked-clean skeletons of two small rodents.

Travelers, as well, if the empty bottles were any indication.

She’d wondered, at the time, how many others had passed through-- found themselves in similar circumstances. It must have looked like an oasis, to anyone but the cripplingly claustrophobic, an 8x8 space with an equally cramped bathroom tacked on, its walls crowded with gutted machinery. The panel on the wall was reminiscent of-- something, something that teased at a memory, or at least the memory of a photograph glimpsed in a book of some kind.

Reasoning that she’d have plenty of time to dwell on it later, she stepped into the small bathroom, peering down at a rusted metal toilet. No sign of waste, she noted, shrugging her pack off her shoulders as Ghost did the same, the ranger’s attentions focused on the solitary window.

“Looks like it’s got plumbing,” she said, loud enough to be heard over the din of the oncoming storm. “How much water do we have?”

“To drink?” Ghost called back. “Or to flush?”

“The second one.”

A gust raked across the expanse that surrounded them, the door rattling on its hinges. The metal panels on the roof, teased into a panic by the sustaining winds, chattered and trembled, the structure itself tugging on its moorings.

“Enough that we won’t have to worry about going outside,” Ghost said, once the cacophony had died down. “You test the pipes. I’ll start sealing the window.”

She could recall finding the moment an odd one, though she hadn’t said it aloud. It crept up on her, though, every once in a while-- little notations in the back of her mind, pointing out that none of this was standard operating procedure. That, for whatever reason, the ranger had requested her presence on a number of missions, a small number of which had been much the same as this: one on one.

It had taken reaching her twenties for it to start happening more regularly. Had taken winning back her squad’s trust, increasing their efficiency and efficacy, and learning what pulling her weight as an NCO actually meant. Gave her reason to suspect that she was being vetted; tested, in some way, to see if she had the mettle to join the Rangers themselves, but she put it out of her mind. Whether or not she was, the possibility was little more than a distraction, and if it was allowed to gain traction, it would be at cross-purposes with the vetting itself.

But it wasn’t the only thing that proved distracting, was it?

Even as Cassandra fished the bottles of dirty water out of her pack, she caught herself glancing at the confined space they’d be stuck in for some time. Dust storms out on the scrublands had a way of lasting for hours on end, and this one was unlikely to be any different. There’d be room for two bedrolls, laid out next to one another, and enough bedding to make things comfortable, but they’d be practically side by side.

Shouldn’t have mattered. She’d slept that way with her squad mates more than once, in a variety of circumstances. But this--?

“Pipes work,” she said, “but we’ll have to do something about that door.”

“Get one of the blankets,” Ghost said. “It’ll be warm enough that we won’t need it.”

_Warm enough._

Cassandra worked her jaw for a moment; did her best to ignore the implications of that, turning her attention to the task at hand. How they planned to cinch the blanket over the door, she didn’t know, but didn’t think to ask, instead taking her time to study the placement of a small tarp Ghost brought with her for occasions such as these, and the door frame itself.

In the end, it was the previous occupants she’d have to thank for showing the way, some of the metal paneling wrenched up from the edges of the doorframe fitted with small holes, presumably for tying down a wind screen, of some kind.

Seeing that, she cleared a space on the floor, sat down, and got to work cutting small holes into the blanket. It was the kind of busy work that didn’t lend itself to optimal focus, and more and more, her thoughts migrated to their surroundings; to the occasional brush of bodies, and every reaction that came with it. But for every reaction, there came a rationalization, and she was hell-bent on holding fast to every facile dismissal throughout the time they’d put into cleaning up the shack, and sealing it.

Then the flask came out.

Cassandra had been leery of it-- and though she played along, feigning the occasional sip when, in reality, it was only ever just enough to wet her lips, Ghost hadn't seemed to notice. Not after the first few rounds, at least, the sniper intent on anesthetizing herself, and using the alcohol as a ready-made sleep aid. Just enough to get her through the night.

That came with its own string of regrets, specifically in regards to not following suit, leaving Cassandra to instead stare at the blank canvas of a darkened ceiling, an already hazy sky conspiring with the setting sun to turn it pitch black. When that hadn't worked - no real surprise that it hadn't - she'd tossed and turned, instead, at which point her regrets were shared. Ghost, already having brushed against sleep more than once, only to be awakened by all the restlessness at her back, rolled around to face the young sergeant; seemed to try to watch her, for a time, as closely as the lighting allowed.

“You're not going to be sick, are you?” Ghost asked, oddly understanding in spite of-- everything.

Cassandra shook her head. “No,” she said. “I'm fine.”

Ghost paused; turned around fully, barely visible in the low lighting. “Doesn't sound that way to me,” she said. “Doesn't look that way, either. Now, come on. If you're not sick, what's the problem?”

“There's--” Cassandra paused; loosed a light sigh. “There's no problem,” she said gently. “The room's just spinning, is all.”

Wasn’t her best drunk impression, but it’d do. Wouldn’t it? It wasn’t the first time she’d gotten the spins, much less complained about it, and Ghost, for whatever reason, didn’t question it.

It hadn't occurred to her to ask how much the sniper had consumed-- but she hadn't been called out on the lie, at least, and it didn't appear as though it was going to happen anytime soon. Instead, she felt a hand rest on her abdomen-- felt fingers stroking her through the material of her shirt, and the warmth that came with it, both within and without, that one simple touch seeming to light up every nerve in her body. All that excess energy seemed to pool between her thighs, and she found, if only for a moment, that she had to fight to keep her breathing steady.

So she held it, instead. Just long enough to calm down. Just long enough to tell herself that she was losing her mind over nothing.

Then came the question: “How bad?”

“It's-- manageable,” she said - could hear her voice waver, ever so slightly - “but it's pretty distracting.”

As if the noise from the windstorm wasn't. As if the clatter of sheet metal was just white noise. As if--

Ghost was watching her again. She tried to look up in the ranger’s direction, well aware that their low-light vision was far from comparable. The sniper may well have been able to see her clearly, whereas she saw only a vague outline.

“You sure that's all it is?” Ghost said. “You seem pretty jumpy.”

Jumpy. Cassandra wanted to laugh; smiled, in spite of herself, _at_ herself, glancing towards the outline of the door, the blanket obscuring all but a sliver of dim light along its edges. “It's hard to get a read on how much of this is me,” she said, “and how much of it is the shack's supports.”

“Shack's not moving,” Ghost said, and Cassandra could hear the smile in her tone; hear the fond amusement in it. “We'll be fine. As for your little 'problem'--” There came a pause-- then, “Think I've got something that might help with that.”

It was hard to say what she expected to come of that-- but the sensation of a hand slipping deftly beneath her fatigues wasn't it. Her breath caught on the sensation of it, tension springing into her muscles, and, for a moment, she felt more than ready to leap out of her skin-- for more reasons than one.

“Just remember,” Ghost continued, fingers pushing beneath the standard issue undergarments to brush over bare skin, “moment you say 'stop,' it's over. No questions-- no need to explain.”

 

* * *

 

"I hadn't planned on making this awkward," Moore said, by way of apology-- once the silence had gone on for what seemed like long enough.

Ghost let out a soft laugh, the little smile that had already been forming gaining more of a foothold. "More awkward," she said. "It already was."

Moore _mn_ 'd gently. “I stand corrected," she said, and lifted her glass to take a sip, noting how much of the drink was still left.

Ghost was, too, by the look of it. "Thinking about having another round?" she said, inclining her head towards the bottle.

"No," Moore said, unable to help an understated smile of her own. "At the moment, I'm debating whether or not I can handle what I've got." Beat. "I'm not opposed to being a bit more-- frivolous than usual, but I'd like to at least retain some memory of the part of the evening that _wasn't_  unquestionably terrible."

"That bad, huh?"

Moore sobered. "I suppose it hasn't been quite _that_  bad," she allowed, "but I've had better."

"Well," Ghost said, "About that." A pause. Then, "I know maybe it doesn't really need repeating-- kind of hoping it doesn't, but-- it  _was_  just talk, you know," she said. "The domestication thing. Not gonna say I didn't know what I was aiming at, but--" she shrugged, "didn't think it'd go as far as it did."

"And under any other circumstances," Moore said, "it probably wouldn't have gone anywhere."

"You feel like saying what that's about, or--?" Ghost said. "You're welcome to tell me to pound sand, but-- I'd be lying if I said that part of this wasn't just-- I don't know. Wanting someone to talk to. Commiserate with." Beat. "Thought we’d have a couple drinks, trade some stories, let bygones be bygones, and go our separate ways.”

Moore couldn’t help the soft laugh that came of that, however understated it happened to be. “Since when has it ever been that simple?”

“Wasn’t always,” Ghost said, “but we had our moments.” A pause. “Starting to get the impression that simplicity came at a price, though.”

“It did, sometimes,” Moore said, “but-- usually, it was a price I was willing to pay.”

Ghost’s lips curled into a rueful smirk. “And now?”

Moore afforded the sniper a one-shoulder shrug, and said, “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

Ghost’s expression sobered. “Yeah,” she said. “Suppose I am.” A pause. “Thing I’m wondering is-- why did you agree to this? Any of it? If you were so sure I was gonna tear you a new one, why take the chance?”

“It’s been that kind of day,” Moore replied. “And the idea of you following me to a card game was more horrifying than the alternative.”

Ghost paused-- then, perhaps in spite of herself, let out a short bark of laughter. "Horrifying?" she said. "Laying it on a little thick, there, aren't you?"

"Maybe," Moore allowed, "but-- as I said, it's been that kind of day."

"I'll just have to take your word for it," Ghost said, still grinning. "I'd like to think I wouldn't have been that much of a shitheel about it, though."

Moore shook her head. “I know you would’ve known to be discreet, but given how my luck has gone-- even the slightest risk that you might wasn't a chance I was willing to take.”

“I’d say I can’t blame you,” Ghost said, “but, like I said, I'll have to take your word for it. Hsu wasn’t too talkative about how you were doing. Just seemed to think you were too tired to make an appearance.”

“Feels like ‘tired’ is the story of my life, at the moment,” Moore replied. “Tired of how the day has gone and, quite frankly-- a bit tired of leaving so many things unsaid. Least of all with someone that I used to consider--”

Another pause. What word best applied there, anyway? Friend? Colleague? Or was it the host of other words that she'd been doing her best to avoid?

She found herself wrestling with that, for a time. Long enough that she barely seemed to notice that Ghost had gotten to her feet, only realizing that the sniper had moved at all when the bed bowed beside her, and a warmth settled in at her side. She felt a spark of tension, in that; felt a clutch in her shoulders that she couldn't quite put to rest, though it eased, after a moment.

Warmth was warmth-- but this warmth had a memory.

“I'm not gonna take your head off if you say it,” Ghost said, “but I get why you might not want to.”

Moore shook her head. “It’s more that I’m not sure how to classify it." She paused; looked back down at her glass; caught herself again debating a refill, and again, she set the urge aside. “You know," she said, "not to change the subject too drastically, but-- you never said why  _you_  took the chance." She looked up, aiming to meet the sniper's gaze, sidelong or otherwise. "Why you made the offer for drinks-- why you tracked me down in the first place.”

"Might be I wanted to see you again," Ghost said. "Might be, just hearing you were in town--" A pause; a little shrug. A sure sign there might have been some sentimentality in there somewhere, but it was brushed aside with a softly stated, "Might've been a lot of things.” Another pause. “Tell you the truth, I didn’t think that hard about it. Just heard you were around and thought, hell-- only so many times that'll happen. May as well take advantage.”

“Might happen more often than you think,” Moore replied. “They’ll want snipers at the dam eventually, and you’re still one of their best.”

Ghost shook her head. “Nah,” she said. “Best utility I’ve got the brass out here is just that: utility. I can train up their joes, but I’ve been sitting up on that roof with my thumb up my ass for too long to be ‘viable.’”

Moore  _mn_ ’d. “This is the commiseration part, I take it.”

It got an  _mm-hmm_ , by way of response. “Still find it hard to believe you’ve got a dog in that hunt, but-- it’s pretty clear I don’t have the whole story, so maybe it’s high time I quit jawing about it. Asked you what was going on. And how you’ve been.”

Moore couldn’t help but note the strange kind of gravity that last phrase took on, her head turning to afford the sniper a questioning look. “How I’ve been?”

Ghost nodded. “I hadn't really heard the whole story. About what happened. Pretty sure I still don't know all of it, just asked around-- got bits and pieces. Rumors, here and there.”

Moore hesitated to ask, but all the same-- “Rumors?”

She nodded. “About how they found you. About how you might've been--” A pause; a vague wave of her hand. “You know.”

“I wasn't,” Moore said. “Just so you know.”

“Good,” Ghost said-- the second, “good,” coming several moments later, softly spoken. Then, “I hadn't heard that part until after I'd reamed you out for, apparently, not knowing my asshole from my elbow. Didn't know how I could've faced you if it'd turned out it was true.”

“You and everyone else,” Moore said. “My first year out, it felt like I had to keep my medical file with me at all times, just so I had something to point to.”

“Yeah,” Ghost said, leaning her elbows on her knees. “Thought about that, too. Seen more than a few people sink their careers 'cause they made the mistake of saying it out loud, but-- that's a whole 'nother can of worms.”

"Depends on where you are in the command structure," Moore said, "and it's becoming a different story with the Legion on the rise, but-- as you say. 'Another can of worms.'" A pause. "How long ago did you hear this rumor, anyway?"

"Long time ago," Ghost said. "Pretty sure most people forgot about it by now. Never really heard it outside of the 'family,' anyway."

"Good," Moore said. "It was only ever a limited number of people that knew about it, but that it was out there at all was-- worrying. Still-- having to make sure I had an answer ready for anyone that might ask was starting to get exhausting."

"And what about the leg?" Ghost asked. "That fall into the same category?"

Moore paused on that; felt her mood dim slightly. Did her best to shake it off. "It does," she said, "and it doesn't. Provided I don't make any mistakes with overexerting myself, I don't give people reason to ask. Then there's days like today, where it seems as though inviting questions is the only thing I can be relied on to get right."

"I can back off on that, if you want," Ghost said. "Just feels like we have a lot of lost time to make up for."

"Among other things," Moore said absently-- then gave a slight shake of her head, turning to face the sniper not long after. "I know the rules, though," she said. "Same as you do. So-- whatever it is, you're welcome to ask."

"You sure?" Ghost said-- and, when afforded a pointed look, raised her hand in surrender. "Guess I'll start with the obvious, then. What's been going on tonight that makes it so relevant."

"Oliver's going to make me stay at my post from here on out, for one thing," Moore said. "He hasn't said it outright, but-- I know he's thinking about it."

Ghost's brow furrowed. "I'm not sure I follow."

Moore took a moment-- breathed a soft laugh, after a time, brow arching at her own expense. "I suppose that does sound like stating the obvious, doesn't it?" she said, placing her hands on the bedding to push herself back against the wall, wounded leg allowed to drape over the edge while the other remained tucked in close, her free arm draping over her upturned knee. "What I mean," she said, "is that I think he intends on making sure that these 'field trips' don't happen again. That I'll be expected to stay where I am except those times I take leave, or ordered to evacuate."

The frown came next, the sniper straightening to look over her shoulder. "He give you a reason why?" she said. "Or are you just speculating?"

Moore shook her head. "It's not just speculating," she said. "I'm sure he's been looking for excuses to have me benched for a while now, for more than a few reasons-- not the least of which is having more say in what goes on at the dam. Today, I just handed him an excuse to couch it in 'concern for my wellbeing.'"

"I hate to repeat myself," Ghost said, "but why? You look fine to me."

"You should have seen me earlier," Moore said mildly. "I was anything but 'fine,' and, if I'm being honest, putting on airs that I  _am_  hurts like hell."

Ghost seemed mildly surprised by that. She wasn't entirely alone in that, either, though not for the same reasons. Moore couldn't recall a time she'd ever said those words aloud, outside of a doctor's office, much less what made her feel comfortable enough to say them now. Something about clearing the air that turned it thin, she supposed. Something about all the silence and the subterfuge over the years that made staying quiet seem even more tiresome than usual.

"What about now?"

"Hm?"

"The leg," Ghost said. "It still hurting?"

"Not as bad as it was before, but-- yes. A little."

"There anything you can do for it?"

Moore leaned her head back against the wall behind her. "Short of soaking it, icing it, or waiting for it to sort itself out?" Beat. "Not really."

"There anything  _I_ can do for it?"

Moore paused-- couldn't help the soft laugh that came of it, however brief. "That depends."

Ghost's turn to pause for a time, trying her best to sort out where that laugh had come from, "On what?" seeming more apprehensive than it ought.

"Whether the offer's genuine, or if it's just a clumsy attempt to get my pants off."

Another pause; an almost startled look to follow-- then a laugh. Still a touch startled, but genuine, all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would've had this out sooner, but it went through numerous revisions, some more tense than others. Given where this is heading, the more tense versions didn't exactly fit, and would've required a more extended timeline to, uh. Anyway, let's be real, I wasn't that keen on standing in the way of the smut. Which, if it's not painfully obvious, is incoming.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos and comments, though, guys. It's appreciated! I know femslash (still) doesn't enjoy a hell of a lot of traction in this fandom, so it's always <3 whenever stories like these get noticed (and I enjoy the headpatting. I mean, really, who doesn't?)


	6. Just Say the Word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the games begin.

When had it happened, exactly?

Cassandra knew when hero worship had shaded into camaraderie, but when had it made the switch to something else?

What made it so easy to hold her tongue as fingers teased their way over her skin? To hold her breath, rather than risk stating the obvious? How hard would it have been, really, to say, _You’re drunk. Are you sure?_

She told herself it wasn’t her place; that her own experience, following the whim that she hadn’t been nearly so certain about, in the sober light of day, wasn’t comparable. She’d been a teenager; Ghost was an adult, and this had been Ghost’s idea. Surely that mattered? It wasn’t the fault of some aura she was projecting, or some inference made. Was it?

_Ask anyway._

An easy instruction to follow. Speak up, save the poor woman her dignity.

Cassandra maintained her silence, instead; told herself that she’d know, somehow, if this wasn’t the right thing to do, even as her hands, held against her chest, went tense, fingers curled inwards, just enough to feel the kiss of nails against her palms.

Hard to say if, in those moments, time had slowed, or quickened. Racing thoughts had become so numerous that they stood to become the equal of the howling storm outside, making each second tick by at a snail’s crawl, while everything else-- 

Everything else-- the warmth of breath tickling the curve of her earlobe, the nuzzling at her hair-- 

That it was happening so fast left her not frightened, but startled. By herself, by the woman at her side, by every cell in her body screaming at her to lay back, and accept what was being offered. By the depth of _want_ that came with it.

In the end, the _want_ made her nervous. _Want_ had made her act on stupid impulses. _Want_ had led to those first, fumbling attempts at intimacy in the carcass of a gutted Corvega, hushed and awkward. _Want_ made her bold, even pushy, and the stolen bottle of rotgut she and her impromptu partner had traded between them had been more than enough to make for a decision she’d ultimately regret.

Or had she only ever really regretted getting caught?

It wasn’t a memory she visited often, nor was it a question she was fit to answer, and Ghost - “Just say the word,” she was murmuring, fingers teasing ever closer to their obvious target - was making it difficult to think.

Or-- so she told herself, until she didn't need to tell herself anything anymore. That first brush of fingertips was enough to throw even the most persistent doubts into a short circuit. They fell silent, vanishing in the wake of an appreciative murmur against the crook of her neck and shoulder, the absent grind of hips against her thigh--

\--The half-breathed, "Jesus, you're--" muffled against her skin.

Not her voice. Ghost's, registering surprise.

Cassandra bit her lip; felt her face go flush. Wasn’t given much time, if any, to feel at all self-conscious about the state the sniper had found her in. Certainly wasn’t anything she could comment on, with her breath catching, her head tilting back.

This wasn't the demanding, sometimes uncomfortable prodding of young partners uncertain of what they were doing; were instead learned, patient strokes that spoke of experience; of self-assurance that ran contrary to youthful experimentation. They teased her, toyed with her, gave her room to let her muscles relax, just enough to start moving, to start responding. And she did-- letting her own hips rise against that hand, against the body beside her, leaving behind the paralysis the fight with her conscience had inspired.

It didn't take long for whimpers to be replaced with moans, from there-- for short breaths to rough gasps, the loose parting of her thighs spreading wider, fatigues trapping the hand responsible for all of it between taut fabric and sweat-kissed skin. Hadn't taken long for hands balled into fists to reach out, either, clasping at Ghost's vest, her body curling forward to bury her face against the soft skin of the sniper's neck and shoulder. Hadn't taken long to feel a tremble, a raw shock of tension--

Then it was over, just as quickly as it began. Orgasm hit-- fierce, memorable. With it came her voice, muffled against skin and fabric, sounds she hadn't heard herself make before, hadn't thought herself capable. Before then, no one had pushed her that far. It was only ever by her own hand that she reached any form of climax, moments characterized by sharp breaths and relative silence, nothing at all like the peak a simple, drunken idea and a patient touch had driven her to. A touch that persisted, even as she receded, a pair of fingers sliding in past her entrance, favoring slick, constricting muscle with slow, deliberate thrusts that chased each aftershock, drew from her every remnant whine and whimper. Left her panting, spent, on the floor of shack--

Listening, as she had when this all began, to the howling of the wind outside.

 

* * *

 

 

“How long’s it been, anyway?” Ghost was asking. “Since someone tried to put the moves on you.”

Cassandra blinked. Wondered, for a moment, how long she’d spaced, her gaze flicking sidelong in the sniper’s direction. Ghost had taken her offer being declined in stride, but seemed only too pleased to pull at the threads she’d been handed, watching with keen interest as her drinking companion took that moment to take what few sips remained of the scotch they’d last poured.

Cassandra didn’t hurry it along, swallowing her scotch and clearing her throat only when she was good and ready, and even then, “Excuse me?” was all that came of the wait time.

Ghost pursed her lips, but the smirk had reached her eyes by the time it’d been brought to heel. “You brought it up,” she said. “Can’t blame me for following through.”

“As it turns out,” Cassandra replied, “I can, actually. But the answer is ‘practically none.’”

“Practically?”

Cassandra shrugged, raising her glass to finish off the last of her drink. “There may have been one or two instances,” she said, “but they happened early on in my career, and I shut them down thoroughly enough to keep the repetition from being too egregious.” Beat. “My reputation did the rest of the work for me.”

“Not too surprising, I guess.” A pause. “Only answers half my question, though.”

“The other being-- what?”

Ghost didn’t bother to stifle the smirk this time. “How long.”

It took a moment to realize what that smirk was about. Though at least partly inoculated against the prospect of being messed with, paranoia had a way of sustaining itself well past the point of reconciliation-- a point of fact that Cassandra had taken as a survival strategy, rather than a point of failure, and, overall, it’d served her quite well.

In this case, it had the additional benefit of making the sniper appear chastened, whatever look had settled into her face apparently enough to point out that, maybe, the approach could stand to be altered.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” Ghost said, shrugging, “but I _am_ pretty curious.”

 _Better_ , she thought. Not ideal, but better.

“I’d ask if there was any particular reason why,” she said, to that effect, “but conversations with you always did have a way of circling around the subject.” A pause. “That,” she said, “and I suppose you have a certain-- vested interest.”

Ghost _tch_ ’d. “Gave up the right to call it a ‘vested interest’ a long time ago,” she said. “Think for now, I’ll settle for ‘just curious.’”

“Fair enough,” Cassandra replied, leaning back against the wall behind her, gaze first turned straight ahead, then migrating up towards the ceiling, her thumb toying with the rim of her glass. “In any event, the answer is ‘probably not as long as you think’-- but long enough to lend some truth to the rumors.”

A soft _mn_ sound rose in response, almost contemplative. “Those still going around?”

“Not as often, but often enough that they never seem to vanish entirely.”

Ghost grunted. “Hard to believe you still put up with it.”

“Fight it too hard,” Cassandra said, “and the chances of it gaining traction only multiply. Besides, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that there are only two types of rumors that follow an unmarried woman in a position of authority. Neither are particularly flattering, but one is more preferable to the other.” Beat. “By a slim margin.”

“Very slim,” Ghost said, pausing to knock back the remainder of her drink, the glass set on the floor by her boots. “’Least no one could accuse you of sleeping your way to the top,” she said, straightening, “but it’s still a load of bullshit.”

“Oh, it is,” Cassandra said, “and there aren’t many besides the men responsible for it that would make the argument to the contrary, but-- even so--“

She raised her glass, just in time to realize that the contents, yes, had been drained the last time around, and carried through the motion by setting it aside on the nighstand. Ghost, in the meantime, pushed herself back on the bed with her hands, apparently deciding that leaning against the wall looked more comfortable than leaning forward, both legs drawing up onto the bed, her arms slung over upturned knees.

“Just doesn’t sound like the sort of thing you should be at peace with,” Ghost said. “Sounds more like the sort of thing you oughta be yelling about.”

Cassandra breathed a laugh. “Yelling about to whom, exactly?”

Ghost shrugged. “Anyone?” she said. “Hell, if it were me, I’d be putting it in my morning briefings.”

The laugh that earned was more substantive, though only just. “It’d make for some interesting conversation, at least,” Cassandra said. “PT at 0600, and, oh, just so we’re clear, if I hear any more talk about the state of my vagina, or anything attached to it, everyone stationed at the garrison gets hit with an immediate demotion.”

“And a pool cue, hopefully.”

“Please,” Cassandra said, turning her head to see the wry grin on Ghost’s face. “I have to make _some_ effort to lead by example, or at the very least maintain some level of decorum.”

“A baton, then?”

“Something along those lines.”

Ghost paused, at that; got another thoughtful look on her face, which never lead to anything good. And though the question, “You sure it’s just maintaining the ‘preferred rumor?’” might have been considered a fair one, it - to Cassandra’s mind - only bore the assumption out.

“How do you mean?”

Ghost shot her a pointed look. “You know what I mean,” she said. “Just seems like there’s more to it than that. All things considered, it’s one hell of a sacrifice, ‘specially compared to how you used to be.” A pause; then, there came a dismissive wave of her hand. “And before you go thinking that was another dig--“

“It’s not,” Cassandra said. “I know.” A pause. Then, “And it’s not as great a sacrifice as you make it out to be, even if, yes, it can be a bit--“ she paused, just long enough to dredge up the right word, “irritating, at times,” seeming-- apt, if not entirely correct.

Ghost snorted. “’Irritating,’ she says. I’d be climbing the damn walls.”

“Well,” Cassandra said, “maybe that’s why you’re a ranger, and I’m a colonel.”

“Ranger-turned-colonel,” Ghost corrected helpfully. “As opposed to a ranger-turned-paperweight.”

“I fail to see the difference,” Cassandra said mildly. “In any event, it’s not as if I lost my hands in the blast. Were that the case, I might be singing a different tune.”

“Let’s be honest,” Ghost said, “if it took both your hands, you’d probably be dead by now.”

“Probably,” Cassandra allowed, drawing up one of her legs to follow suit with the sniper at her side, one hand slung over her knee while its mate rose to toy with the edge of her thumb. “Wouldn’t be the first to go that route.”

“Rest in peace,” Ghost muttered under her breath. “Still,” she said, “bet you’re not too thrilled with anyone seeing what that blast _did_ take.”

Cassandra paused on that; felt a familiar clutch in her chest, even if it lacked the usual anger that so often came with it. There were plenty of answers she could give to that, ranging from defensive to acknowledging, but there were precious few present to form an articulate response.

So, instead, she said simply, “You’re awfully good at that.”

“Good at what?”

“Ruining my mood when it’s just starting to lighten a bit.”

Ghost afforded her a humorless smile. “’Rest in peace’ didn’t get there first?” she said. Bereft an answer to the otherwise facetious question, she said, “Wasn’t really planning on ruining it. I just know you, is all. Hard to imagine that you’d be okay with anyone seeing you as walking wounded.”

Seemed little else to say to that but, “I’m really not,” fatigue both mental and physical making the thought of deflection and subterfuge too exhausting to consider.

Besides, there was something oddly-- refreshing? About the frankness of the statement, and the reply. No kid gloves, no attempts at softening the words. Just the god’s honest truth.

“I’m even less interested in making conversation about it,” she continued, “and that goes double for anyone that hasn’t served, even if those who have aren’t particularly good at making a case for themselves.”

Ghost breathed a soft laugh, at that. “That’s always a kick in the teeth, isn’t it?” she said. “Caught between Joe Shitbag, and Jane Q. Public.”

“Being fair, Jane Shitbag can be just as repellent,” Cassandra replied. “Makes for some rather limited options-- and in the case of the former, all it does is leave me open to ‘conduct unbecoming.’”

Ghost made a vague sound of acknowledgement, though it was grudging. “Suppose that ‘superior officer’ thing does throw a pretty significant wrench into things.”

“To put it mildly.”

“But there is another colonel wandering around,” she said. “You ever think about getting together with him?”

Cassandra fought to contain the laugh that came of that, but the smile snuck out on its own. “Are you talking about Hsu?”

“Of course,” Ghost replied. “Royez would break you in half.”

That time, the laugh snuck out, short-lived that it was. “I beg your pardon.”

Ghost spread her hands. “I’m just telling it like it is. Big man, big appetites.”

“Not really something I wanted to think about,” Cassandra said, leaning her head against the wall again. “As for Hsu--“ She let her gaze drift upwards, idly surprised that she was even considering the question, but then-- that was the magic of alcohol, she supposed. “The answer is no,” didn’t take long to arrive upon, however. “Our working relationship can get a bit-- contentious, at times. Willfully adding the complications that come with a sexual relationship seems like it’d be-- ill-advised, even in the best of circumstances.”

“But you’ve thought about it.”

“Not until right this second,” she said, mild amusement coming through in her tone. “He always struck me as the sort that would be more interested in ‘fixing’ me than anything else. Not what I’d call ideal in a situation that’s mean to be more fairweather than most.”

“Ah.” A pause. “Fair enough. All right, yeah, put a pin in that one, then.”

“Already done.”

“Still, though-- you go that long without, any slab of meat with some availability would probably start looking tempting. Even if it’s the one that’s looking at you like a fixer-upper.”

“Give it a few years,” Cassandra said, “and maybe he will. Until then, that’s all the more reason to avoid it.”

“Or do something about it,” Ghost said, sobering. “Let’s be honest, if all you’re worried about is some bad press, stepping over regs, or getting the rumor mill talking, maybe it’s not a bad time to remind you that you were a ranger, once. Means you’ve already got over a decade’s worth of bad press, and then some, doing the sorts of things that’d get a normal joe discharged. Or executed, hell.”

“Your point being--?”

“My point being that, if someone wanted dirt on you, it’s there for the taking, and no ‘code of honor’ bullshit is gonna save you from that if the right amount of money gets paid to the wrong people.”

“Be that as it may,” Cassandra said, “there’s a vast gulf between getting raked over the coals for doing my job, and being publicly humiliated for pursuing a personal life.”

“I suppose,” Ghost said, the tone conveying a touch more understanding than the words themselves. “In the meantime, though-- you do have options.”

“Hookers, you mean?”

Ghost paused; let her gaze slide over in Cassandra’s direction, one brow lifting in silent question. Cassandra maintained her silence, her own brows lifting in a show of feigned ignorance.

Shaking her head, the sniper said, “All right, well-- that’s another conversation we’re having later. For now, though-- I’ve got a question.”

“Do you,” Cassandra said, more a statement than a question. “That comes as a surprise.”

The put off look the sniper shot in her direction was ruined by the faintly amused smile that came with it. “I’m serious. Not about the rumors, or the insults, or even the leg. It’s on topic, sure, but,” she shrugged, “that’s probably not a surprise, either.”

“It’s not,” Cassandra said. “And so long as you don’t mind some indignity, this would probably be the best time to ask.”

“Pretty much my thoughts exactly,” Ghost said, expression turning oddly contemplative as she turned her attention in the younger woman’s direction. “So,” she continues, voice softening, a wry, lopsided smile appearing on her face, “that in mind-- is the room spinning?”

Cassandra paused; had to take a moment or two to sort that out. Turning her head, she saw the attentive, if not urging look that was leveled on her; found herself rushing back to all the same questions that the anxious twenty year old had in that rickety shack, for several long moments. She wasn’t so far gone that she’d consider herself unable to make decisions, but this was-- different.

This was inviting something back in that she wasn’t entirely sure she had the energy for. But then again-- 

“Has been for a while now,” she said, almost surprised at how her own voice had softened.

It was easier to say than the initial shock had suggested. And even as the words left, she felt the small bundle of tension in her shoulders leave with them, a sensation that was only affirmed by the broad smile that curled over the sniper’s lips.

“Good.”

 

* * *

 

 

There was always something about that smile.

She’d seen it only briefly, at those times their lives again intersected. Could picture it again in her head as two fingers slid deep inside of her, hear it in the heady voice that spoke words that sat at the cusp of her comprehension, and answered both with a shudder and a soft whimper as, finally, those fingers withdrew.

It was a broad smile. The grin of coyote, sated and docile, paired with the sensation of damp trails drawn over her lower abdomen, cutting through sweat and leaving a subtle tingle in their wake.

Without thinking, without bothering to take the time to catch her breath, Cassandra’s hand rose to capture the sniper’s wrist. An act of compulsion, nothing more, nothing less, leading her to draw the hand responsible for her haze of satisfaction up towards her face, glistening fingers caught between her lips, and thoroughly cleaned.

She heard the answering groan, and felt the still-clutching muscles between her thighs tighten, as if the sound itself was something her body could capture. Her thighs squeezed together as she worked, the pulse that fading contraction sent to her clit dovetailing into a small, remnant shiver.

It wasn’t the first time she’d tasted herself; wasn’t the first time she’d imagined it on someone else’s fingertips when it was her own hand she’d cleaned, but it wasn’t an impulse she ever thought she’d follow. The word _unseemly_ had come to mind once too often, but now-- Now, her blood ran hot, restlessness that she’d thought might leave her in the aftermath of climax stoked, renewed, lending itself to a soft murmur as Ghost eased her fingers in just a little deeper, following the tempo of lips and tongue.

When she was finished, the sniper withdrew, catching her chin with damp fingers, seeming ready to coax her up onto her elbows. She followed; sought lips that were within a hair’s breadth of her own, the shuddered breath that whisper of contact provoked eliciting a spark of excitement that made all her earlier concerns seem almost laughable.

But then a hand came to rest on her shoulder, the sniper turning her head, the, “No,” that followed softly stated, even as it landed like a lead weight. “It’s okay.”

It was a tone that was meant to be reassuring. Apologetic.

It was neither.

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

Cassandra blinked; tried to will away the darkness, to see the look on Ghost’s face. Confusion settled in, as profound as the darkness that surrounded her, even as a small voice in the back of her head told her that she had no right to be confused in the first place.

“You okay?” Ghost asked.

A shred of guilt in there. Cassandra’s face burned, upon hearing it. “I think so,” she said, “but--“

“I can take care of myself,” Ghost said-- a little too quickly, a little too insistently. “This was supposed to help you sleep, anyway, not, ah--” a pause, “not amp you up.”

She sounded nervous. _Why?_

“It’s a little late to worry about that, isn’t it?” Cassandra said, flinching inwardly at the almost-- _diminutive_ tone her voice had taken. “Besides, I really don’t mind.”

Ghost paused. Muttered something under her breath; a curse of some kind, by the sound of it, a hand dropping back down to Cassandra’s midriff. Fingers closed around the material there, pulling it taut against her sides, and though she told herself not to, she raised her hand to place it over Ghost’s own, even as she forced herself to lay back.

“Are, ah--“ Cassandra told herself not to ask, but-- “Are _you_ okay?”

Another pause. “I am, I think,” Ghost said-- may have caught the underlying question - _was **this** okay?_ \- and tempered her response accordingly. “We can talk about it tomorrow. Just-- I hope you know, I wasn’t chasing any favors.”

Not nervousness, then. Guilt. And again, there came the question, _why?_

Cassandra watched the dim outline of the sniper’s silhouette, unable to think of what to say. _I don’t know what that means_ , was the first to surface, but it was a stupid thing to answer with.

“I know,” came out instead. “It’s okay.”

“Okay.” A pause. “Get some rest, all right?”

Cassandra nodded, even knowing that rest was the last thing on her mind. Just another question, instead, joined by the warnings of her aunt that girls don’t ‘act out’ the way she just had. That partners, any partner, would find brazenness unbecoming. She hadn’t put much stock in it, at the time, filing it away as another nonsense platitude from an otherwise broken woman, but seeing that shift, the nervousness, the guilt--

_Was this a mistake?_

In the end, she again found herself staring up at a blank void, uncertain of how to feel about-- any of it. _It was what it was,_ repeated over and over again, seemed a perfectly functional method of self-soothing, but it only went so far. For now, though, it was over. Time to appreciate the moment for what it was, and move on.

 

* * *

 

It hadn’t been a bad thought. Had actually been rather pragmatic, at the end of the day: enjoy what you have, while you have it, and if it’s gone tomorrow, then so be it.

Cassandra couldn’t fault a twenty-something for failing to take comfort in that-- but where her younger self faltered, she felt strangely at peace. Whatever she got from this, that was what she got-- and that was alright. Whether it was a mistake to believe herself so perfectly content with the premise or not would be something to navigate in the morning.

At least this, in comparison to all else, would be pleasant. And this, she’d had years to prepare for.

The word ‘love’ had never passed between them, after all. There was affection, yes-- even moments that could be called _loving_ , in and of themselves, but so far as she had known - so far as either of them had known - those moments came with an expiration date. Separation wasn’t a possibility, it was a given, brought on by alternate paths their superiors would lay out for them, and there would be no illusions about what that entailed.

Or, so they thought.

The conversation had done its best to prove otherwise, shifting the focus from natural drift to something-- else.

It seemed a bit laughable, thinking that might be all it took to ply her, to win her over. And while she could tell herself that there was no sense in recapturing what had been lost - that she wasn’t nearly so sentimental - there was something ticklish about the idea. Something warm, even pleasant, coaxing her to respond to what now felt like just another inevitability, kicked off by the stroke of a slender hand across her cheek, that one simple gesture making her aware of her exhaustion, and her nascent excitement.

Or not. It couldn’t quite qualify as nascent when she’d stoked it with a false-start, earlier in the evening, those lingering frustrations playing in favor of lightly chapped lips brushing experimentally against her own. She found it stirred not her usual resistance - kissing had long been against her privately-held rules - but a kind of hunger that, once engaged, wasn’t inclined to be so easily tamed. An intensity to which she’d become unaccustomed, over the years, the hesitation that realization brought with it, though subtle, just noticeable enough to provoke a smile from the woman responsible for drawing it out of her.

“You never had to worry about me before, Cassandra,” Ghost said, affecting a wry tone. “I don’t plan on giving you a reason to start.”

Cassandra breathed a laugh, in spite of herself, gaze flickering downward in lieu of ducking her head. They still sat shoulder to shoulder, Ghost’s body twisted at the middle to face her; to stroke her cheek, and one side of her throat, the attentions drawing her eyes back upwards.

“You don’t need to give me a reason when I’m perfectly capable of inventing my own,” she said, the words lacking any real sense of conviction, though the bluntness there was-- stark.

Ghost paused, watching her; lifted a hand to stroke her jaw, and curve up around her ear, tucking back some short strands of chestnut hair. The sniper’s turn to hesitate, it seemed, puzzling out that response as best she could, her expression sober; surprisingly thoughtful.

Cassandra’s own expression faltered. “That was a joke,” she heard herself say, though her tone lacked any trace of humor.

Still-- it wasn’t a lie. Not entirely.

Ghost being Ghost, she caught that thread of ‘not entirely,’ and a smirk reappeared on her features, humorless this time. “You sure about that?”

Cassandra afforded the look a halting smile of her own. “As sure as I can be.”

Ghost _tsk_ ’d; seemed to give it a moment or two, toying with some strands of hair, but, ultimately, was no more interested in ruining the moment than Cassandra, herself. Let her idling hand instead drop down to the nape of the younger woman’s neck, and drew her in for a kiss.

It was gentle, to start with. Experimental, as it’d been before.

Cassandra felt herself chafe, at that, even knowing she shouldn’t. Being treated like fine china, like she might shatter at any moment, had never been to her preference. But even as she thought it, understood the reasoning behind it, she felt the contact deepen, and all her old habits - keeping a tight control on the sounds she made, on the way her breath caught, on how eagerly she reciprocated - were all there to point out that, yes. There may be reason for experimentation; for being careful.

Belligerently, she sought not to listen; answered the kiss, instead, with a tilt of her head to deepen it with a soft, urging murmur of approval. She was rewarded with a tightening of the hand at her nape, and a soft sound in return, low and urging. But then the pressure receded, the clutching hand loosening. One kiss became several - gentler, shading back to experimental - until, finally, Ghost paused, and spoke.

“Tell me you want this.”

A quiet, understated heat suffused those words; a heady quality that spoke of how that voice might sound in two minutes’ time-- ten minutes’ times--

Her eyes open, lips a hair’s breadth from Ghost’s own, Cassandra’s answer, “I want this,” came easily.

It almost made her smile, saying that. Almost did, had a kiss not been there to intercept. Nothing tentative about it, this time, her words taken not so much as permission as gospel, the hand at her nape dropping to her shoulder, urging her to move. To pivot, probably; to lay down.

Wasn’t a bad idea, on its face; fewer odd angles, less of a need to maneuver. But there was just enough delay in responding to it that it must have read as a hesitation, the sniper withdrawing to favor her with a curious look.

“What’s, ah--“ Ghost paused; breathed a laugh, her own gaze darting downwards. When it lifted again, she said, “What’s the best way to do this?”

Cassandra paused-- couldn’t help but laugh, herself, however briefly, the sound soft; subdued. “Do you need me to draw you a schematic?”

Ghost fixed her with a look. “You know what I meant,” she said, hand dropping down to Cassandra’s breast, thumb and forefinger giving the half-hardened peak a light pinch, a wry smile appearing on her face upon hearing the little, hitched breath that came of it. “What’s the best way to make sure you stay comfortable?”

Ah, yes. That.

It couldn’t have hurt to talk about it, though it took her mind a moment to push through the haze the idle stimulus brought on to realize as much. Wouldn’t hurt to take a little bit of time to discuss the matter, but want had long since outpaced practicality. That, Cassandra made clear by taking hold of the sniper’s wrist, guiding the hand that teased her downwards, to the clasp of her slacks.

“First and foremost,” she said, “don’t give me time to think.” Seeing the uncertainty that simple instruction brought on - that question that she, herself, thought to pose so long ago, _are you sure?,_ plain on the sniper’s face - there came a soft, “Please,” to follow, soft and steady.

The bemusement made it worth it, she found, Ghost’s brows arched in a show of faint surprise. Then came a lopsided smile, quickly tamed in service to the kiss that followed.

The tug at her waistband, the sound of the zipper, was enough to bring on a vague, preliminary contraction between her thighs, the purred, “Yes, ma’am,” against her lips eliciting the beginnings of a shiver that she caught and stymied with an unnecessary adjustment of her weight on the bedframe. “Just looked like you were having second thoughts.”

“I was,” Cassandra replied, keenly aware of the hand responsible for tugging the slacks open sliding beneath them, traveling over bare skin-- and how closely she was being watched. “But all that means is--“

Her breath caught, then-- eyes snapping shut, the hands to either side of her hips clamping down on the bedsheets. There had been no prelude, no teasing-- just the deft descent of two fingers, middle and fore, splitting to either side of her clitoris. From Ghost, she heard an abrupt exhalation, felt the warmth of it against her skin, the shiver she’d derailed threading its way up from her hips into her shoulders, unabated. It was an exclamation in itself, no matter that it was barely a sound at all, the sniper’s fingers stroking her vulva in its entirety, the impression of taking in every little detail, of pure indulgence, far from lost on her.

 _God, I missed this,_ needn’t be said aloud when touch along conveyed the message. When the insistent nuzzle at one side of her neck served as punctuation. Then came the hasty thrust of those two fingers sinking into her, down to the first knuckle, encountering warmth and wetness that answered simply: _so did I._

So did the catch in her breathing, the second in a long line of many, the willingness to be bold with her, to touch, to explore, to sink deeper as her muscles closed tight around the fingers inside of her, doing more for her than she cared to admit. For all her talk it had been far too long since an encounter like this had been anything but carefully orchestrated, the touch she offered rarely reciprocated-- at her own insistence.

That was a sad state of affairs, in and of itself, but before the thought of reasoning and rationale could take root, there came a question: “What does it mean?”

It arrived at the heels of a second thrust, deeper this time, the withdrawal slow, the tips of Ghost’s fingers tilting just enough to drag over the upper arc of the slick channel they occupied, the indirect attention paid to the internal structure of her clit enough to draw a shuddered breath. Made it difficult to discern what it was she was being asked, for a time, but the words coalesced, leading Cassandra to open her eyes, and turn a sidelong glance towards the woman beside her, a broad grin there to greet her.

She scowled, at that, though the wordless admonishment didn’t last long, another deep thrust punctuated by a thumb swiping over her clit catching her off-guard enough to tighten her jaw, her teeth gritting behind the thin line her lips had formed.

Catching her breath in the aftermath, she said, “What it means--“ well aware of the tight, breathless quality her voice had taken on, “is that you’ll have to make sure I stop having them.”

“I think I can manage that,” Ghost said gently, punctuating the words by burying her fingers as deep as they could go.

Then came another kiss; a more direct, albeit still diffuse drag of Ghost’s thumb over the half-hardened bud she’d only seen it fit to tease-- still saw it fit to tease, as her lips sought the tight line Cassandra’s own had become. The kiss was feverish, complemented by a low moan cresting in the sniper’s throat, fingers affording the tight channel that surrounded them one last thrust before withdrawing entirely, the fore settling over sensitive glans to begin in earnest the process of breaking down every shred of restraint that still remained.

She might have managed it, too, though again Cassandra found herself biting back the first moan it provoked, holding her breath to keep it contained in her throat, even as the desperate need to answer registered in tightly closed eyes and a visible knit in her brow.

It was pointless, she knew, just as one deft circuit after another sought to remind her. With every tight circle the sniper’s fingers drew, direct and consistent, the urge would only grow in magnitude, and, inevitably, win out-- _did_ win out, cresting not as a moan, but as a whimper, as if to chide her for thinking she could be the better of it.

She fought the urge to curse; moreso, at the soft, amused sound that Ghost made against her lips. Breaking the kiss, the sniper said, “I know that sound,” the smile abundantly clear in her tone. “You always did have a thing about holding back.”

“It’s not a ‘thing,’” Cassandra protested. “Just--“ a pause; a moment to ride out the brief wave of tension that followed in the aftermath, “just a bad habit.”

“Want me to slap your wrist, then?”

Cassandra breathed a soft laugh, in spite of herself; opened her eyes to afford the sniper a sidelong glance. “Not particularly,” she said, making an effort to tame her breathing; to speak with a bit more conviction, “but maybe-- if you tried harder, it wouldn't be a problem,” quietly pleased with the bemused look it earned her.

Ghost recovered quickly, however, “Honey,” said mildly, the sniper’s brow arched, “if I thought for a second you wouldn’t find a way to have me working latrine duty for the rest of my tour-- for that?” Her finger drew upwards, teasing over sensitive folds, “I’d be making you beg me to try even a little,” and settling over the bud it had abandoned, the first circuit she drew proving to be agonizingly slow. “Hell, keep talking like that, and I might even think it’s worth giving it a shot.”

Cassandra bit lightly at the inside of her lip, a small _nn_ sound rising up in her throat, the tension in her muscles sending a tremble through her wounded limb. “You wouldn't dare.”

Ghost _mn_ 'd softly, the second circuit just as slow as the first, a wolfish smile spreading over her face. “Don't be so sure.”


	7. Speak For Yourself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little late in getting these put together, but a) had fallen behind on Main Writing Project, so I had to put this on hold and devote a bit more time to it, and b) wanted to make some tweaks here and there. If not for the tweaks, it probably would've been posted this past weekend.
> 
> In other news, this chapter is complete hyperindulgence, and for that, I make zero apologies.

Maybe she'd just been kidding herself.

Sensing the withdrawal before it happened, Cassandra turned a wary, warning gaze to the woman at her side, the words she'd spoken to dissuade all thought of _teasing_ and _begging_ no longer quite so facetious. She got back a knowing smile, and some careful reassurances to the contrary, without having to say so much as a word.

"I just want these off," Ghost said, snatching at the belt loop of the slacks with fingers the glistened under the dim overhead lights. "That going to be a problem?"

Intimacy, she'd told herself, was just another casualty of the political stage; just another part of who and what she was that had to be carefully honed, directed, and, yes, to some extent, tended. But with that one suggestion nearly stopping her heart, she knew better than to think that was the whole of it.

It wasn't as if it had been a full decade since last she'd allowed herself the privilege of company, but it had all been sterilized, the exchanges themselves brought under a level of control that situations like these - that spur of the moment liaisons - clearly lacked. Over time, she'd even become quite comfortable with the idea, convinced that she had come to prefer the blank slate of company that was bought and paid for.

True, she didn't have the kind of paycheck that allowed for things like hush money, but that was accounted for in personal conduct. In the end, anyone with the time, money, and motivation to sniff out her personal exploits would come away only with the disappointing discovery that the most damning piece of information one could hope to find was that, where it came to Colonel Cassandra Moore, 'she's cagey, but she paid well.'

But it was a bit like tourism, wasn't it? Viewing what you once knew from a distance, never immersing or ever really engaging. Catching hints of personal connections that never went farther than the tight grip of hands on her arms, or her shoulders. Everything else was just an echo, so faint as to be rendered meaningless. A glancing touch against her face, her neck, her breasts-- the sensation of fingers stroking experimentally between her thighs. All diverted, all gently declined.

And why was that, exactly?

She wasn't a woman ruled by fear in any other avenue of her life, and had functioned under the impression that, in this, she hadn't been. Except--

Well. In some ways, she was-- wasn't she?

"If it is--" Ghost was saying, an offering that wouldn't have been made in the first place, had it not been for what appeared on her face.

In that light, "It's not," seemed the only answer she could abide. The adjoining, _Just make it quick,_ went unstated.

And though Ghost must have sensed the apprehension, she opted instead to trust the answer she was given. Offered a kiss to one side of Cassandra's neck, and moved off the bed to crouch down between her thighs, thumbs hooking into the waistband of her slacks.

Leaning back on her hands, she felt the tug, and felt something in her balk, at first, the wordless instruction to raise her hips off the bed ignored for one heartbeat-- then another. Ghost watched her throughout, fingers splaying upwards beneath her shirt, against her bare sides, in a motion that was probably meant to be reassuring.

"It's probably not as bad as you think."

"I know," Cassandra said gently, though her voice lacked conviction.

Better that than defensive, she thought, and Ghost didn't refute the claim. But that, instead, she said, "Want me to stop?" may have been worse.

"No." Cassandra paused, catching the hints of that defensiveness in her tone. "No," she said again, gentler this time. "I'd say if I did, as you might recall."

Ghost afforded her a lopsided smile. "Then lift up for a second, will you?" she said. "Sooner I get these off, the less you have to wait."

It seemed a less tempting prospect now than it did a moment ago, she noted-- but the thought of turning her back now was--

It shouldn't have come as a surprise that the mere idea was somehow more galling than nearly anything else that had happened that evening, but-- it was, in its own way. And it was with that in mind that she complied, raising up off the bedding to give Ghost room to tug the slacks down along her thighs, the sniper's gaze turning not to what had led her to strip them off in the first place, but towards the damage she uncovered. There was no attempt to hide her examination, either, leading Cassandra's gaze to drop, and do the same, quietly tracking the ugly scar that ran from hip to knee, the jagged lines branching out from it reminiscent of dry, cracked soil.

Then a hand came into view, navigating the patchwork of skin and scar tissue. She had to keep herself from flinching away, the upward stroke of Ghost's palm stimulating nerves both numb and hyperactive, creating in its wake a mix of phantom itch, and a light, tickling sensation. Took her a moment, in light of that, to realize that both the sniper's hands were moving over both her legs at the same time, urging them apart, the upward glance she was favored with seeming no different than it'd been just a moment ago.

And though the question of _how_ was raised, only, "Want to lay back?" was spoken.

It was a relief to hear that the fire hadn't left her voice entirely. That it had been tempered was no surprise - even Ghost knew when to show some respect - but the fear that it might be gone, replaced with pity, regret, or even some unearthed thread of guilt--

"Don't have to if you don't want to."

Cassandra blinked; knew the question must have formed in her expression, even if it went unsaid.

That much, she could surmise from what was said: "Just look like you got to thinking again."

Cassandra breathed a laugh, in spite of herself, the smile that accompanied it there and gone just as soon as the sound had passed. She couldn't tell if it was relief, an odd case of nerves, or-- what it was, exactly, but she felt at least some of the tension in her break.

"And what did I say about that?" she said.

"Not to let you," Ghost said, her own smile turning wry, for a time, hands drawing back to take hold of the slacks, and pull them down the rest of the way. "Guess I'm not doing too good a job of keeping up my end of the bargain."

"No," Cassandra said, pulling her feet free, "you're really not." A pause. Then, "Lucky for you, I suppose, that I'm a ways past second-guessing."

Ghost did her the favor of ignoring the subtext of that remark, nudging a shoulder beneath her wounded leg, arm looping around the thigh to cross over her hips. "I'll try not to let that get to my head," she said mildly, her other hand rising to glance gently over slick folds that had, none too long ago, been getting the bulk of the attention.

Cassandra's breath caught on that, and Ghost's smile widened again-- the kind of self-satisfied, cheshire grin that might have been maddening, under any other circumstance. "'Try'--" she began, regaining herself, sliding her hands back against the sheets to give herself something to lean on, "being the operative word."

Ghost just smiled, drawing a lazy trail over dusky skin, methodically tracing the hood and shaft of her clit, and leaving alone the sensitive tip. "Never said I'd be any good at it."

And before Cassandra could offer a reply of her own, the words left her. The two fingers that teased her dropped smoothly towards her entrance, and eased inwards, the air cooling the bare skin between her thighs replaced with a warm breath, and a flick of the sniper's tongue.

If the aim was to wipe out all thought, and any pretense of it, then Ghost made a good showing. Not in that first touch-- a glancing swipe, enough to still Cassandra's breath with a tight hitch, to make her wonder if her headspace had drifted too far to make any of this even remotely viable-- but in what followed. The sniper's lips caught and tugged at the tip of her clit, still straining in the aftermath of what had come before, and poised fingers thrust deep without so much as a single hesitation.

All at once, her mind blanked, warring uncertainties wiped out with a sharp, "Ah!" that rose to greet the second thrust, the low moan that answered her, resonant against her, earning a tight squeeze of her muscles around the sniper's fingers. Her own clutched hard at the sheets to either side of her, curling to seize hold of them, head bowing as her eyes snapped shut, her breathing staggered. It was too much, too soon-- raw overstimulation, clashing hard with the lull that had proved near-fatal to the shared intentions that had brought them this far in the first place.

But then the fingers inside of her retreated-- just enough to settle against the upper arc of her pelvic floor, just a ways past her entrance, the tips rubbing firmly, insistently, against the internal structure of the bud Ghost was so eagerly tending. A shot of tension joined the shift in sensation, teased her back into an arch, her head lifting, tilting back, a knit etched into her brow, voice breaking from parted lips, the sound straddling the line between a rough moan and a desperate whimper.

There was no pretense of silence after that, her voice proving the only outlet she had available to her, seeming to seed every other breath with pale, abbreviated echoes of that first witless exclamation. At any other time, she might have found that maddening; might have been chagrined by her own inability to keep herself reined in, but she had no one to impress here. Nothing to hide from. There was no reason to uphold some pretense of ironclad control, no reason to keep her voice in check, and so-- she didn't. Let those hybrid sounds shade, instead, into moans that broke intermittently through panted breaths; let her hips rock against Ghost's hand and mouth, the relentless ache generated by both making it clear that, for as tumultuously as all this began, it would swiftly come to an end.

Just like it started-- too much, too soon-- the frequency of her contractions doubled, her clit stiff, straining out from beneath its hood, every pass of Ghost's tongue seeming more intense than the last.

Then she balked-- just for a moment. Just one single moment, in that inevitable slide towards climax. She might have found that amusing, in hindsight, wanting so badly to hold back, to be given just a little more time to savor every second she could get her hands on, and finding herself utterly incapable of summoning the will to try.

So-- she didn't.

She held her breath, instead-- felt it all build in a wave that worked its way up from between her thighs, the whiplash of tension it generated threading its way up her spine, cresting as a shudder through the line of her shoulders, and a tremble in her hips.

Then it was over. Her hips jerked, as much as they were able, and she came, her back arching, her white-knuckled grasp twisting in the sheets, a sound like a sob breaking from teeth clenched and bared. Inside and out, her muscles seized, the moment shaping her voice in whichever way it saw fit-- moans, at first, stark and ragged, and then, as the riptide of contractions receded, something softer. Murmurs-- whimpers-- didn't matter much what they were. They were coming out, one way or another, following on the heels of the same patient thrusts that brought her down on that first night they'd spent together, and so many nights after.

Ghost fingers slipped free of her, and she felt her muscles grasp tight at a presence that was no longer there. Felt the aftershocks, one after another, tapering with the heavy breaths she took, and the light tremble of the arm still holding her aloft. Warmth settled between her thighs, radiating against her upper body, and she opened her eyes to see Ghost watching her-- just in time to feel the brush of two fingers against her lower lip, cooled by the still air.

There was no need to wonder what was being asked of her, and there were no hesitations. She turned her head, catching those fingers between her lips, the knit that had receded from her brow deepening again, one hand raising to grasp a slender wrist. Her eyes drifted shut to the sound of a soft, appreciative murmur-- her own, raising around the digits as she cleaned them, a little, remnant thread of tension bleeding into her shoulders as a shuddered breath came in answer to her attentions, the hand that had come to rest against her side gripping tight.

She couldn't quite help the faint smile that came of that, Ghost's own words - _I know that sound_ \- playing in the back of her mind. Letting go of the sniper's wrist, her teeth teasing over skin as the fingers retracted, she felt them drop down to the line of her jaw, the hand at her waist raising to mirror it. She didn't bother to open her eyes; could see the shift in shadow behind her lids, and rose her head just enough to invite the kiss that followed. Fingers splayed over either of her cheeks, her own hand coming to rest against Ghost's hip, nails scraping denim. Then the kiss broke, and her eyes opened to the sight of a warm smile.

"How many times do you think I can get you to do that?" Ghost said.

Cassandra paused, letting her the sound of her breathing settle that last little bit before it no longer competed with the hum of the ventilation-- and with an understated smile of her own, she let the hand at Ghost's hip slide between denim-clad thighs. "As many times as you can handle," she said, and let her touch infer the rest.

 

* * *

 

"Rangers have rules for this."

It wasn't what Cassandra wanted to hear that following morning, but she listened, all the same.

"They're sort of-- fast and loose, like you'd expect, but--"

Listened to Ghost talk about _the regs_ , about the rules surrounding the acceptance of favors-- the kind that were offered in exchange for passing along some glowing reviews to the rangers in charge of sending out invitations to those enlisted that had caught their attention.

"I'm not supposed to tell you about that," Ghost said. "Not supposed to tell you that I've been giving you an eval, either, but-- pretty sure you figured that one out by now."

In truth, she hadn't. Not really. She'd had some passing notion that maybe that might be the case, and, really, should have been thrilled to hear about it-- but she was a little too preoccupied with the subtext to think too hard about the text. About the halting nature of the statement; about the rueful, almost sullen quality it took, a tone Cassandra hadn't really heard before, such that, had she not been looking straight at the woman, she might have had to ask herself if she was listening to someone else.

"Means I owe you one hell of an apology."

They'd been walking across the scrublands as they spoke, out under a blazing afternoon sun. The heat had been too oppressive, even inside the shack, to remain where they were for long, the stagnant air offering little in the way of relief, and the stretch of open land they navigated hadn't been much better. They didn't have time to stop, to idle for much longer than it took to swig some water, or duck behind a rock to take a piss, but stop was precisely what Cassandra did, turning to look at the sniper with a baffled stare.

"What?" she said. "Why?"

Ghost paused; turned to face her, and Cassandra saw her own baffled expression mirrored back at her in more ways than one. 'Speechless' wasn't a look the sniper wore well, and after a moment, seeming to realize she was staring slack jawed at the young sergeant, she clicked her mouth shut, and furrowed her brow.

"Well, I--" she began, then paused again. Raised a hand to rub at the back of her neck, casting a glance to one side as if expecting to see something other than the dry sagebrush that surrounded them, her lip quirked slightly. "Guess we covered that you weren't drunk," she said, though she'd taken her sweet time buying it when the point was raised initially, and still didn't sound like she believed it, entirely, "but I _was_ , and, technically--"

"Technically," Cassandra said, "shouldn't I be the one apologizing to you?"

A stunned silence followed. "No?" Ghost said carefully, as if she wasn't entirely sure how to answer. "Of course not." Then, shaking her head, she said, "Look-- _technically_ , even if I'm not your direct superior--" Then she stopped again. Let her hand fall to the crook of her neck and shoulder, squeezing the wiry muscle there, gaze dropping to the ground for a time. "Doing that to you," she said, "it wasn't right." She lifted her gaze. "And I wouldn't blame you for being upset, or--" Her hand raised, giving a vague gesture that amounted to little more than a wave. "You know."

Reporting it, she meant. With all the gravity that entailed.

Might not have meant anything in for regular army. The NCRAF had taken its time to draft up rules and regulations surrounding the concept of conduct unbecoming, and it wouldn't be until Cassandra had made colonel that the newly established JAGs were committing themselves to untangling what was, and wasn't ethical in respects to the interpersonal relationships between superior and subordinate. At the time Cassandra had found herself laid out on the floor of the shack, on the other hand, breathless and shaking? The conversation had barely even started.

The Rangers, on the other hand-- though their reasons were entirely pragmatic, they'd been ahead of the curve. A favor bought and paid for could mean the induction of a new recruit poorly suited to the organization, and they weren't as willing as an army still going through its growing pains to play fast and loose with personnel.

That should've been easy to understand. Should've made it easy to be an adult about it, to offer some reassurances, and just accept that this would be their one and only time together.

Instead, "It felt right to me," was all Cassandra could think to say-- in a tone that she would later remember as 'whimpery.'

Not her proudest moment by far, but it got the point across.

And though there was more talk of _the regs_ \-- more talk of rules to follow, Ghost had at least conceded to letting it all rest on a single point: that until the evaluation was complete, and the invitation to join the rangers was extended, there would be no repeat performances.

But-- after that--?

"After that," Ghost said, a wry, halting smile on her face, "I'm sure you're gonna make me regret saying 'no' in the first place."

 

* * *

 

"You okay?"

Cassandra blinked; turned her attention to the woman settling in beside her, upper body bared save for a sports bra, a name conferred to the garment by a scent few undamaged labels she'd seen still attached to them.

Ghost had always been partial to them-- possessing a slender frame, and just enough of a bustline to warrant something underneath her usual clothes - though nothing quite to the extent that Cassandra herself was 'forced' to wear, to keep things under control - she'd always been a wiry sort, with tightly corded muscles that still maintained a presence, this many years out. And while there were signs of aging, most of which, Cassandra assumed, were the reason the bra was still being worn, they were either surprisingly minimal, or weren't all that apparent under the dim lighting.

Made her wonder if time had been anywhere near as kind to her, all told, but allowed that it probably wasn't the best question to ask-- be it of present company, or of herself.

"You gonna answer me?"

"Hm?" Cassandra paused, becoming faintly aware of the hand skirting over her midriff, and teasing upward the material of the undershirt she still wore. Then: "Oh."

"Yeah," Ghost said, lifting that hand to brush aside some errant strands of sandy brown hair. "'Oh.'" Beat. "You okay?"

Cassandra arched a brow, though only just. She wasn't inclined to put forth too much effort. "You really need to ask?"

Ghost smiled, hand retreating back to her midriff. "Yes and no," she said. "Your clothes are still on, for one thing. And for another--" A vague shrug. "You just looked a little spaced out, for a moment there."

Cassandra afforded the sniper an underplayed smile of her own. "Wouldn't you?"

That earned a soft laugh. "S'pose so," Ghost said. "That mean you're still coming down?"

"More just enjoying that there was anything to come down from in the first place," Cassandra said, seeing no reason to hedge on that.

She'd heard herself, after all-- and couldn't rightly recall the last time she'd shown that kind of enthusiasm, much less been so-- what? Helpless to it? Seemed as apt a description as any, and that part, she felt no need to say aloud.

Arguably, she'd 'said' enough already.

"Should be plenty more where that came from," Ghost was saying, affording her a leering smile, "but I think I'd like to get rid of these first," fingers plucking at the hem of her shirt to tug on it. "If it's all the same to you."

Cassandra lifted her head to glance downwards, towards the undershirt she still wore, and immediately let her head drop back down against the pillows. "In a while," she said. "For some strange reason, I'm not feeling all that motivated to bother, and besides--" she paused, a smile tugging at one corner of her lips, "I don't see you rushing to strip down."

Ghost chuckled. "That your way of saying I should just ditch the jeans?"

Cassandra _mn'_ d. "You probably should," she said, rolling lazily onto her side, slow enough to give the sniper time to lay back, and make room, "but I think I can manage that part just fine on my own."

"Not going to afford me the same courtesy?"

Propping herself up onto her elbow, Cassandra said, "Not yet, no," her free hand getting to work on the clasp of the jeans. "I give you any more concessions, and that ego of yours will be getting the better of you in no time."

Ghost's hand had slipped beneath her, fingers teasing over her spine, "Little late for that," said in concert with a return of that cheshire grin.

Cassandra afforded the idle attentions a soft, appreciative sound, eyes hooding, fingers catching the zipper of Ghost's jeans to draw it downward. "Suppose that just means I have to even the odds, then, don't I?"

"Suppose so," Ghost said, the grin broadening-- then dimming slightly. "Just one question."

"Hm?"

"Just a minute ago," she said. "That wasn't just you being 'spaced out,' was it?"

Cassandra paused, brow arching. "Maybe it was," she said, "maybe it wasn't."

"Let's say it wasn't," Ghost said, inviting an incredulous look, and answering it with a prompting look of her own. "What were you thinking about?"

Another pause-- after which, Cassandra breathed a laugh, fingers teasing at the open fly beneath them. "What makes you so sure I was thinking about anything?"

"I know you, Cassandra," Ghost said, the faint amusement in her tone echoed in her smile. "I know the look you get when you've got something on your mind." Then she paused, expression turning faintly bemused. "And now you're smiling," she said.

"Am I?" Strange question to ask, but all the same-- "Just seems like I've been hearing that a lot lately."

"Which part?"

"'I know you, Cassandra,'" she echoed, letting her hand drift upwards over the flat plane of Ghost's abdomen, fingers teasing beneath the tight band of the bra. "Though, at least from you, it doesn't sound nearly as grave."

Ghost breathed a laugh, then bit her lip, eyes hooding as Cassandra's palm slid under the fabric, clasping bare skin and teasing her nipple to attention. "Does that mean you're not gonna answer my question?"

"Technically," Cassandra said, giving the soft flesh beneath her hand an indulgent squeeze, "I already did," withdrawing enough to catch the hardened peak between her fingers. "It's been on my mind for a while, now."

Ghost arched into the attentions, feigning a kind of lazy detachment that did a poor job of covering for anticipation. "Still stuck on the shack?" she murmured, raising her own hand to let her fingers draw gently over Cassandra's wrist, then up along a bare arm, the whisper-thin friction of her nails creating gooseflesh in its wake. "Never thought of that as much of a first."

It was a strangely sobering remark, drawing her up short, and Cassandra paused; let the subtle shiver that touch evoked dim before she spoke, though her bemusement took a moment or two to settle. "Speak for yourself," she said gently, shifting her hand to catch Ghost's nipple between her thumb and forefinger.

Ghost's jaw tightened slightly-- the sign of a response having been pointedly held back, her hand coming to rest at the crook of Cassandra's elbow. "Didn't mean anything by it," she said. "Wasn't much of one for you, either, by my count." Then came the smile. "Those first few days after training, though--"

 

* * *

 

"You-- _do_ know how much our rooms cost, don't you?"

The receptionist had been staring at them since they'd come in. Against the backdrop of the Parlor, one of Vault City's premiere venues, Cassandra and Ghost - windswept, covered in dust, smelling of the brahmin cart they'd been hauled in on - stood out like a sore thumb.

"I have an idea, yes," Cassandra said.

The receptionist paused; flicked her gaze towards the better-dressed guests standing behind the two women, then looked back at Cassandra. "And how many days were you planning on staying?"

The place didn't have the same opulence as the New Vegas casinos, but it was something, certainly. Clean, carefully constructed, and, even after the settlement's absorption into the NCR as a whole, better suited to the Brahmin Barons, politicians, and other 'elite' types that were steadily on the rise. That the receptionist was looking askance at the both of them hardly came as a surprise.

Still, Cassandra had made her wishes known. Wherever they were staying, the place had to have running water. More specifically, she wanted _warm_ water, and clean baths, a feature that was rare outside of New Reno-- and New Reno, as had been pointed out, came with several warning labels. Vault City did, as well, but it wasn't nearly as xenophobic as it'd been when they'd been children, and there were grudging allowances made for service members with recognizable IDs. After all, if not for the army, the well-heeled populace would have been steamrolled several times over, and the NCR was only too happy to point that out on a regular basis.

The only hurdle, really, had been the odd looks Cassandra had gotten upon giving her full name, but those had been ignored, and, eventually, they passed. Thankfully. Exhausted, half-starved, dehydrated, and still healing from a couple unexpected animal bites - one from a gecko, and one he scarcely remembered getting in the first place - she wasn't eager to answer any questions, or wrap her mind around the odd bits of local politics some of the old-timers had offered up on their way in.

The receptionist's own question fell into the same category. Just one more thing she didn't care to have an answer for, save to slap down enough NCR scrip to last for a couple nights, at least.

Even saying, "However many days that buys us," was starting to feel like a trial.

Ghost shot her a sidelong glance. The reception's brows, meanwhile, looked as though they were making a go at crawling up past her hairline.

"Right," she said. "Certainly."

As it turned out, 'a couple nights' had totaled to four, leaving Cassandra to wonder, though only briefly, just how much money she'd put down in the first place. It should have bothered her-- should have registered in some capacity, at the very least, but she was too grateful to receive the lock codes to their room to care, and too tired to enjoy the decor when, at last, they made their way through the halls.

It wasn't entirely lost on her, though. The fog of delirium that dogged her every step had made the experience almost enjoyable, in its own way, save for one problem: she had, without a doubt, never felt worse in her life.

Bruised and battered, having shed nearly ten - twenty? - pounds over a grueling six months of 'ranger school,' she, quite frankly, felt ready to die. She'd barely slept more than four hours at a stretch, on any given night - "Sounds about right," Ghost had observed - had gaps in her memory that she couldn't account for - "Some people don't remember it at all," Ghost said - and wasn't entirely sure if she'd succeeded, or failed to make the cut.

She had dim recollections of hearing that she had. Could remember having to catch the man alongside her as his legs gave out from under him, the prospect of facing a recycle enough to do him in. The rest, though--? She'd only really slept in fits and starts on the road to Vault City, and what little memory she had of the journey came through in little flashes, like a series of faded photographs.

Now, crossing the threshold into a cozy bedroom, Cassandra reached out to take hold of Ghost's upper arm, and said, "This is real, isn't it?" A pause. "I made it, right?"

Ghost, initial bemusement fading into a knowing smile, said, "Don't worry. You earned your stripes."

"Okay," Cassandra said, giving a slow nod. "Good." Then, more softly: "That's good," after which she let her hand slip free of Ghost's arm, felt herself teeter, and, much like the young man informed that he had to go through the course all over again, collapsed on the floor in a heap.

 

* * *

 

"As I recall," she said, "I was barely conscious for most of that."

"Out like a light," Ghost murmured, that smile still plain on her face. "Took you about two days to figure out that there was more to life than just sleeping."

"And another two to figure out that here was more to it than just eating," Cassandra replied, mirroring the smile, though the effect was more subdued.

"Think the nausea did that for you," Ghost said, hand traveling back up to Cassandra's wrist. "You ate yourself sick more than once."

"'More than once' implies that I never quite learned my lesson," Cassandra echoed, glancing towards her hand as it was tugged downwards, a faintly amused look crossing her features upon realizing what was happening. "And," she said, voice softening, "I seem to recall hemorrhaging scrip like I couldn't wait to get rid of it."

Ghost breathed a laugh. "Think you blew half your savings on that one stay," she said, nudging the captured hand towards the fly of her jeans.

Cassandra looked up, meeting the sniper's gaze, fingers toying with the clasp beneath them for a time. "I would've lost it one way or another, I'm sure."

"Oh?" Ghost smirked. "Never struck me as much of a gambler."

" _I_ wasn't," Cassandra said, "but--" Then she paused. Breathed out a soft laugh of her own, and said, "This really isn't the time to mention it."

"No," Ghost said. "I want to see where you were going with that." Fixed with an odd look, she said, "What? When's the next time I'm gonna hear this?"

"Roughly never," Cassandra said, "if I have anything to say about it. One way or another-- it's a long story. And, at the moment, it's really not worth telling."

"At the moment," Ghost said. "What about later?"

Cassandra allowed herself another brief pause, the question oddly sobering. "Later," she said. "When would that be, exactly?"

Ghost shrugged. "Whenever I happen to see you again."

Another pause; another moment. "Later, then," Cassandra said gently, fingers sliding down beneath the denim before she could think too hard about what all that entailed. "For now-- suffice it to say that, so far as I'm concerned, it was all money well spent."

 

* * *

 

The room had been pristine, those first couple days they'd spent in it.

That wasn't surprising. Cassandra's circuit had been primarily between the bed, and the bathroom, alternating between sheets and warm water, with Ghost making frequent checks on the latter to make sure she hadn't drowned. During that time, food seemed to appear on its own by the bedside, after which she ate, rolled over, and continued to sleep.

It was on the third day that she woke with an appetite, and by the time evening rolled around, a collection of plates had piled up on the dresser. It hadn't much mattered what type of meal it was, or even if it got finished-- so long as it was something other than a scavenged MRE, or the gruel that had been served up when the meager stock of those had finally run out, it was ordered, and either picked at, or devoured. True, she'd had to contend with nausea when, inevitably, she'd overdo it, but after a pleasant nap and the appearance of gin on the nightstand, she was more relaxed and content than she'd been in years. Absurdly sore, but relaxed, all the same, and, dressed down to little more than a sleeveless shirt, and a pair of BDUs that had, once upon a time, actually fit, she had opted to take it easy on the drinks, both for the sake of her stomach, and for something else.

Namely: "You made a promise to me," she said, eyes on the woman that sat reclined on an overstuffed chair pulled to one side of the bed, positioned to be within reach of the nightstand. "About what would happen when I graduated." Beat. "Are you still good for it?"

Ghost favored her with a close-lipped smile. "I figured it'd be best for you to decide for yourself if you wanted to collect," she said. "But yeah. I'm good for it."

It wasn't the most graceful way of phrasing it-- was almost sterile, in its way, but Cassandra found herself lacking in the patience necessary to give a damn about grace. It was only the offer she cared about, raising as she did from the bed, and sinking down in front of the chair without so much as a single word, hands getting to work on a pair of well-worn jeans, the ache that suffused every muscle in her body left ignored.

Ghost's brows arched, at that, an amused grin spreading over her lips. "You sure you know what you're doing?" she said.

Cassandra shook her head. "No idea," she said, too warmed by food, drink, and more than a little remnant exhaustion to be anything but brutally honest, her fingers hooking into the sniper's waistband. "Is that a problem?"

"No," Ghost said, and the smile widened. "I'm just making sure."

It hadn't occurred to either of them, at the time, that they were having two separate conversations. Wouldn't occur to them until several moments later. As it stood, though Cassandra had been honest, she tried to tell herself that she knew at least a little. What she planned to do, had thought about doing, had not only been rather lovingly described in some of her aunt's "secret" holotapes-- but it had been done to her, twice before. True, it hadn't lasted all that long, the young man that had taken it upon himself to introduce her to it using it as more of a warm up than the main event, leaving her to take herself the rest of the way by hand as he sheathed himself inside of her-- but it had yielded some decent returns. Hadn't it?

Made it easy to tell herself that, at the very least, she knew the basics-- even as she caught herself staring at the shock of color between impossibly pale thighs, the reality of the situation sinking in, slowly but surely.

At that point, a new thought emerged: she was about to make a fool of herself, wasn't she?

That was when the two conversations collided-- and Ghost, speaking gently, asked, "This really is your first time, isn't it?"

Cassandra glanced upwards, her hands on the sniper's bare thighs, though they moved no further. She hadn't noticed until that moment that she'd gone a little wide-eyed, and did her best to correct for it, opening her mouth to reply. Nothing came of it, at first-- and while the patient smile she was faced with left her chagrined, to the curious look, and the question it punctuated, she nodded.

"First time with anyone, or--?"

Cassandra blinked. "No?" she said. Then, hearing the uncertainty in her tone, she said, "No," giving a slight shake of her head. "Just, ah--" A brief pause. "Just-- the first time with another woman."

Ghost seemed to relax a little; even looked a little relieved, at that, though Cassandra hadn't known what to think of it, at the time. Didn't quite have the brain capacity to put two and two together on where that tension might have come from, and didn't have time to consider it.

Not when, "Don't worry," was said to her in a tone that traded out sobriety for something lower, something deeper-- the kind of urging that stirred her appetites with expert precision, complemented as it was by a hand stroking gently through her hair. "I'm sure you'll do just fine."

Cassandra paused-- then, eventually, let her attention slide back down to where her gaze had been riveted. Lifting a hand, she let her fingers drift first over coarse hair, just as pale as everything else, and slid the tips down over labia that were, she noticed, just a little more pronounced than her own, the experimental touch earning a soft _mmn_ of encouragement. Her gaze flicked upwards, seeing that look turn hazy, even of the intensity of it has shifted, and let her hand continue to wander, learning by touch something as familiar to her as it was foreign, her thumb pulling the hood back from a clit that was visibly smaller, by contrast-- and fully hooded, she noted inwardly, the tip of her own always seeming at least partly unsheathed at all times.

Galvanized by another soft sound that rose from Ghost's lips, she couldn't quite help the lopsided smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth; couldn't help that it dimmed soon after, right around the time that her fingers, middle and fore, slid down to Ghost's entrance. Words like _hot_ and _wet_ sprang immediately to mind, and she felt her insides tighten-- felt that tension break in a faint contraction as the tips of her fingers dipped inward. Felt fingers that had threaded into her hair tighten as, with only the slightest hesitation that so often came with performance anxiety, she leaned forward, and got her first taste of that with which she'd become very well acquainted.

 

* * *

 

She'd do it again tonight, if she had anything to say about it-- but not just yet. And maybe not this time, either.

For as much as that moment was etched into her memory, there were other memories that had a gravitational pull of their own. Memories that had more to do with watching intently every reaction that came to pass, from subtle to blatant.

With that in mind, she let her hand slip down a little further-- just enough to feel slick warmth beneath her fingertips, her eyes hooding, body responding as if her own desires hadn't been satisfied just minutes before. Then came a smile, broad, curiously unabashed, and kept firmly in place by the soft curse Ghost hissed under her breath. The sniper's brow furrowed, her unending ability to make those first few moments of pleasure seem so adversarial still clearly in place, upper lip quirked to show teeth in an almost canine snarl.

"You really did miss me," Cassandra said, "didn't you?" fingers dipping downward to find the source of that heat, the damp seam of denim that had so recently pressed tight against the sniper's cleft bringing to mind more than a few images, all quite pleasant. "I can't imagine you get this wet for just anyone."

The bravado was brought to a halt by that remark, as if it came as a surprise-- and maybe it had. It wasn't the first time Ghost had been met with such candor, but after all this time, it was clearly unexpected, the reaction lending itself to an incredulous smile-- the kind that, Cassandra was certain, would never get old.

"Not usually," Ghost allowed, breath catching on the downward stroke of Cassandra's fingers, seemingly intent on following the route she'd taken not ten - or had it been twenty? - minutes earlier. "Just don't-- get all smug about it."

Cassandra pursed her lips, though the edges of her mouth curled into a wry smile of her own. "I'm not making any promises," she said, fingers slipping past Ghost's entrance, and sliding in just as deep as they could go.


	8. Insufferable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn. Sorry for the huge delay. I've had the bulk of this written for a while, but needed to do a re-write on my original projects, which sucked up a lot of my time. 
> 
> This _should_ , theoretically, be the penultimate chapter, barring some rallying cry for 'no just keep writing sex, it's cool,' and even then, I may ignore that in favor of wrapping it up and moving on. I have other old 'fics I wanna revise in my free time, now that I have a little more of it again (she says, knowing that might change at any given moment).
> 
> Lastly, I want to thank people for the comments and kudos they've left! It's really been heartening after going so long without posting anything fandom related. Y'all are sweethearts. <3
> 
> Now-- onward.

"Don't you ever get tired?"

The words were spoken lazily-- half complaint, half encouragement, colored by a muted smile that wedded amusement with comfortable fatigue.

Then the smile faded, slowly but surely, Ghost's insistence that two orgasms was more than enough, that sleep was more than welcome, coaxed away by fingers charting an absent if obsessive course between folds still slick with signs of arousal.

Remnant, to be sure-- but present. Enough to serve as additional encouragement.

As if Cassandra needed any, even as the question of, "Should I stop?" was posed, her intention to do anything but as clear in her tone as it was in her actions.

A soft sound answered her, and her thighs tightened around the sniper's own, the limb still trapped between them. Lifting her head off of Ghost's shoulder, she trailed her lips over the contour of a defined jawline, just as two fingers, middle and fore, slipped past the sniper's entrance.

The response was understated, but welcoming. A luxuriating sound, settled deep in the throat; a subtle wave of tension that Cassandra could feel as it built, starting with the tell-tale nudge of hips, reaching its apex in a languid arch, and terminating with a stretch, a murmured approval serving as punctuation. Cassandra answered it with a soft sound of her own, low and encouraging, favoring the slick channel that gripped her fingers with gentle thrusts, head bowing to place a kiss at the junction of Ghost's neck and shoulder.

"You can do that-- just as long as you like," Ghost said gently - belatedly - her voice hazy, that low purr that never seemed to leave her voice entirely still settled in deep. "Just-- _mn_ \-- can't promise that it'll go anywhere."

Cassandra couldn't help the wry grin that came of that, her teeth skimming over the skin that her lips had tended just moments before. "Is that a challenge?" she asked, fingers moving a little quicker, sinking in a little deeper.

Ghost's smiled returned-- widened, after a moment. "No," she said, "but you're gonna treat it like one anyway-- aren't you?"

Cassandra drew away, arching a brow; caught a visibly amused look on the older woman's face, and _tsk_ 'd softly.

Had she her wits about her, she might have known to say that hers was a rhetorical question-- may have said something about 'reaping what you sow,' or having been trained exceptionally well, over the years. Instead, she answered in the affirmative-- wordlessly, and intently, besides.

Didn't matter that her wrist ached when it was over, the tips of her fingers subject to a subtle tingle that seemed to last until she'd gone to sleep that night. Didn't matter that the bedsheets had turned damp, or that part of her now longer for another lengthy soak in the bathtub. Didn't matter that all the aches and pains of the last six months were all still present and accounted for, saying nothing of the exhaustion.

Enduring the lot of it had, to her mind, been entirely worthwhile. Worth it to see the contortions of Ghost's expression; worth it to hear the shaky breaths, and feel against the rise and fall of restless hips, turned more anxious, more impatient, more aggressive as again that remnant arousal was replenished, and rewarded. Worth it to feel muscles close, tight and insistent, around her fingers as the tips sawed against the ridged flesh just past the sniper's entrance-- to hear the strain in the evocative sounds that seemed to echo through the darkened room, and the panted breaths that came after.

Compared to the six months of hell she'd just put herself through, it was a refuge Cassandra was only too happy to sink into; a reward unto itself that she allowed to consume her.

The mindset must have been an infectious one. Clipped gasps and staccato moans had receded, given way to a lascivious growl-- to hands grasping at her shoulders, shoving her onto her back. Then came a kiss, near-bruising, the bare knees that had settled between her own pushing outwards to spread her open, Ghost's free hand raking through her thatch and gliding down over her slit. A moan broke, vibrated against her lips, and she answered it; echoed it, hands rising to take hold of shoulders that, already, were drawing back, the kiss broken.

Her breathing uneven, Cassandra opened her eyes to see the sniper retreat down between her thighs, the impression of a wolfish smile that had spread over pale lips contoured by the carbide glow of the lamplight outside, two words, "Your turn," making her muscles tighten of their own accord.

She surrendered to it, and gladly. Showed no sense of propriety, or inhibition. Didn't have the will for it.

She whimpered; she cursed; cried out as she came, and moaned with every aftershock that the sniper's talented fingers saw it fit to draw out of her, until she was little more than a shuddering mess, focused only on continuing to breathe.

Only then did she sleep-- and when she woke, her head heavy with the effects of alcohol, her body aching pleasantly with the excesses of the night prior, she drew the sniper out of sleep not with a kiss, or a quiet word, but with her hand slipping back between sleek, pale thighs.

 

* * *

 

It was that same night that had allowed her to appreciate, to some small capacity - at least, when not personally subject to their whims and appetites - the dogged determination of men to move as quickly and uncompromisingly as they could towards the quote-unquote 'main event.' Having occasion to experience it herself, in a limited sense, feeling acutely every passing flicker of movement, voluntary or otherwise--

She'd never feel it as intimately as a man might, but she hardly counted it as a loss. The build-up of intensity was still the same, the velvet clutch of muscles gripping tighter, pulling her deeper, until the tissues swelled and seized, right there at the end, treating her gaze to a body obeying witlessly the command to tense up, and go rigid. And while it was true that there was nothing unique about it, nothing terribly novel, between one woman and the next-- while it was a given that one orgasm was much like the other, save only in the personal touches that arose in sound and movement, _who_ those sounds and those sensations were attached to still carried weight.

Or-- for the moment, at least, there wasn't much point in pretending that it didn't.

It was still a sliding scale, tilting from something dangerously close to affection, and back towards something dry - bleak - but it was there, but rather than catch herself from leaning down - rather than reroute entirely like a cat caught in a stumble, shrugging it off as a reason to start a vigorous session of grooming - she allowed herself to follow through. Nuzzled gently at the pale crook of a bare neck and shoulder, taking in the scent of stale sweat, and the distinct tinge of sage and juniper-- essentials for a sand bath, lest one find themselves intolerant of their own company.

The slowing of those heavy breaths, the stilling of those movements-- it occurred for only a single, startled heartbeat, but her awareness of it coaxed a wry, rueful smile out of hiding. It didn't last-- but it was there, just like it always was, and Cassandra aimed to use it for what it was, thrusting her fingers in deep, and applying the kind of pressure on the withdrawal that turned the forced grunts and growls into something closer to a helpless groan.

No-- a moan, more like; a sharp _mmn!_ that came rushing out against lips thinned into a tight line.

She should've been more pleased with herself, hearing that. Usually, it took more time an effort to make the facade of bravado crumble, but it was already well on its way out. For the moment, however-- she found she just wanted it gone.

Lifting her head, lips skirting over the curve of the sniper's jawline, and stopping just short of her ear, Cassandra said, "You're closer than I thought-- aren't you?" and felt the shiver that came of it.

Felt the squirming, besides; the nudge of a thigh against her own. The intent was little more than to resettle - or pretend to resettle - but she took it, instead, as an invitation, parting her legs to seize the wandering limb between them.

Still no answer, she noted, raising up a bit further to get a good look at Ghost's expression. It was a pinched look, almost-- frustrated?-- in its own way, but while she could have puzzled it out, done her best to figure out what it was that was being so bothersome, she opted instead to test her theory on her own, her thumb passing over a clit still hidden by its hood. Just enough to be felt-- just enough to gauge the sniper's response, well aware that being too direct was something she had to work up to. But rolling her thumb against the taut shaft? That was enough to earn her a choked breath, an incoherent attempt at speech, and a hand seizing at her bicep.

"Sorry," she said, slowing the motions of her fingers to match the ponderous circuits her thumb drew. "I'm not sure I heard that. I don't suppose you'd mind repeating it?"

Ghost's lip curled, just enough to show the hint of gritted teeth. "Not-- a good time," she panted, "to be a comedian."

There was annoyance in that tone, but it was without any bite-- and to that, Cassandra _mn_ 'd gently, maintaining the slowed pace she'd adopted. "No-- that doesn't sound right," she said. "Too many syllables."

Didn't even have the energy for a slap on the wrist, or a hissed rebuke. She was too busy being-- what? Relieved? To have a moment to regain herself?

It would've made sense. Cassandra had received none of the usual warnings that the roll of her thumb was off-limits, nor was there any sign that she'd misjudged. In fact, if she'd misjudged anything, it was just how far along the sniper was in the first place. That much was visible-- apparent in a face that was contorted not by discomfort, but by pleasure, Ghost's lips parted soundlessly, head tilting back against the pillow beneath her. And as Cassandra's rhythm got just a little quicker, switching tactics to instead move her thumb in time with every thrust and withdrawal of her fingers, she felt the hand between her shoulder blades tense, ball into a fist, and grip hard at the material of her shirt. Heard the hitched breath that dovetailed into a moan that had raised in pitch, and in urgency.

Short-lived, but no less satisfying-- even if there was something spiteful about it.

That part, though-- Cassandra was doing her best to ignore, even as a wryly amused, "Good girl," escaped her, the words earning her a half-hearted sneer. "Still isn't quite what I asked for, but I suppose it'll have to do."

Ghost let out a short, stiff breath, like an exasperated huff. She was being careful about when she spoke, well aware of the kind of sound she might make if she let loose too quickly.

"What-- did I say," she said finally, "about getting smug?"

Cassandra let the smile she wore filter into her tone, "It's a little late for 'do as I say, don't do as I do,' isn't it?" said with just a bit more bite than she'd intended.

It was then, as her fingers sunk in deeper, robbing the sniper of whatever response happened to be forming, that she knew full well where it came from. Why she wanted to see the facade break down in its entirety.

It wasn't expressly cruel, or removed-- but it was present, stirring beneath the part of her that murmured her approvals, that made her legs tighten around the thigh trapped between her own. But this had, in its own way, turned into its own form of retaliation, urging on with every steady thrust of her fingers the kinds of responses that instinct gave life to instead of reason.

Then came a catch in the rhythm of already scattered breath; a tight exclamation to follow, and a shudder, besides, tension racing through the body beside her. She could take it as a prompt, she knew-- to accelerate, press the advantage, but instead, she slowed again, waiting for the response she knew was coming.

Except it didn't-- not in the way she expected.

That relief was there again, even as skin-deep lipservice was paid to frustration, "Cassandra--" said through gritted teeth in an ironically toothless warning, "I swear to god-- if you're messing with me--"

It was-- strange-- to watch. Strange enough that Cassandra found herself cutting it off at the pass, moving her thumb so that it dragged over the tip of the sniper's oversensitive clit. The response was immediate-- a sharp arch of Ghost's back, and a clipped _Ah!_ coming in time with a full-body jerk of muscle tension, the attempt the sniper had made at pulling a face ended abruptly. There was instead the deep knit in her brow, and a series of short, heavy breaths pulled through lips that formed a startled O, the second pass of Cassandra's thumb lifting her head off the pillow as her upper body seemed to curl forwards.

She fell back, not long after, squirming, the nudge of her thigh between Cassandra's own generating a kind of friction that was as welcome as not, " _Shit_ ," hissed through teeth that clenched for all of a heartbeat. "What the hell are you--" She took a breath; gave a little shake of her head. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"From this vantage point?" Cassandra said. "You'd almost think I was."

And for a moment, she wanted badly to give voice to her observations. To call out the disparity she was seeing. But she knew what that fuse was attached to-- knew a little too well where that might lead.

Was there really much point in lighting it, save to give herself yet more grief?

Rather than follow the trail, then-- she said, "Too much? Or too little?"

"Both?" Ghost said, eyes still shut tight, complemented by a furrow in her brow. "Neither?" A pause. Then, " _Fuck_ \--"

No matter her efforts to tame her expression - not that it mattered if she did, or she didn't - Cassandra couldn't help the smile that came of that, pace slowing for just long enough to take in the contraction that closed in on her fingers. "I don't mean to criticize," she said, "but that's not exactly what I'd call helpful." She _mn_ 'd thoughtfully-- then, "Though I suppose I take your point. Maybe if I gave you some room to speak--"

" _Don't_ \--" The word was practically barked. "Don't-- say it," Ghost said, the hand clutching Cassandra's shirt holding on just a little tighter. "Don't even _think_ about it."

It was the kind of ragged entreaty that made her thighs tighten around the sniper's own, the little back and forth suddenly more of a burden than it was a moment ago. Still-- "Excuse you," she said, doing little to mitigate the heat that arose in her tone. "I'll think about it all I like."

Better than the alternative, anyway-- and to that, Ghost had no further response. Didn't want to chance it-- that much was definite, this time, the aggression all but evaporating. Seeing it - feeling it, in tension that ricocheted through the muscles of the thigh trapped between her own - Cassandra felt the chilling effect that had settled over her start to sink its claws in just a little deeper.

This _was_ always the way of it, wasn't it? Following all the same patterns. Ghost arrived, Ghost persuaded, and then-- Ghost left. True to the name she'd chosen for herself.

They had all night, yes-- for as long the alcohol didn't put her to sleep. For as long as they could both stay awake, and stay cogent. For as long as Cassandra herself could tolerate it.

After that--

 

* * *

 

In the Rangers, Ghost had told her, parting ways was inevitable.

It hadn't been necessary to mention-- Cassandra was well aware of that fact, with or without the reminders, the number of dead rangers and regular army that she'd seen since she'd enlisted already exceeding the number of fingers and toes she possessed, which, thankfully, was all of them. She hadn't mentioned that, though-- had known better than to open her mouth. If she had, she might have asked if the sniper had intended to say it as often as she did, or if she'd noticed that the number of mentions, inferred or otherwise, had nearly doubled in frequency.

Then came the question of 'why,' but-- Cassandra knew the why of it already. Could navigate the meaning behind it from the safe distance they kept from one another, even as the gulf began to widen. Had chosen, perhaps incorrectly, to read it the signal flares the sniper had thrown out for her as a gentle reminder to stay at arm's length.

So-- she had.

It hadn't seemed like it was for protection's sake, though she supposed it could have been. A ranger's life was nothing if not transitory, and be it the fault of injury, death, or something as simple as reassignment, they would eventually find themselves parting ways with one another. Could be for months-- could be for years. Could be they never saw each other again, after a certain point, and staying together?

Squads, she'd been told, existed only when they needed to exist, converging on specific missions that required multiple rangers, rather than one ranger attached to a specific unit, platoon, or battalion. They'd be seeing more of regular army than they'd be seeing of one another, and it was something she'd just have to get used to.

"And you?" Ghost said, grinning at her. "I'm sure they'll be training you up for something else in no time." Beat. "You've certainly got the chops for it."

Maybe she was just punchy that day-- or maybe she'd just gotten tired of hearing it, but she could feel a groundswell of irritation, in the wake of that. An _Oh, for god's sake,_ was right on the tip of her tongue, the urge to roll her eyes more profound than it had been the last couple times she'd heard it, but she let it culminate instead into a vague shrug.

"So you've said," was all that came of the rest.

"I'm serious," Ghost said, nudging her shoulder.

Cassandra _mn_ 'd-- and before she could stop herself, she said, "Well-- you keep being 'serious' like this, and I'll start to get the impression that you're trying to get rid of me."

Ghost just shook her head. "Nah," she said. "Working with someone that knows how to flush out a target is worth its weight in gold, and besides--" the grin widened, "I can't rightly say _why_ , but for some reason, having you around makes the nights go by a lot faster."

Cassandra afforded the sniper a vague smile of her own; let it reach her eyes, even if she wasn't quite feeling it. "I've heard I'm a decent conversationalist," she said. "That might have something to do with it."

Ghost nodded. "Yeah," she said. "That sounds about right."

They'd gone quiet for a time, after that, Ghost's attention turned largely to the jagged rock that rose up around them, the narrow canyon they'd been navigating carving its way through the backcountry surrounding a newly established encampment. Reports of power-armored nomads moving through the area had gotten them moving, once they'd arrived, and be they Brotherhood, or some far-flung remnants of the Enclave, the commanders nearby had tasked the two of them with looking around for a base of operations.

It should have been easy to divert the conversation back to that, but instead, Cassandra said, "What if I decided to stay put?" doing her best to adopt a more casual tone, gaze absently taking in the look of her surroundings.

Ghost breathed a laugh. "You're welcome to try," she said, "but if you ask about it too often, the brass'll think something's up."

Cassandra resisted the urge to turn and stare, affording the sniper only a glance, instead. "I suppose," she said. "I haven't gotten around to asking just yet, but it'd be nice to know it's an option, at least."

Ghost shrugged. "You make it through your first few years all right, and it might be," she said. "Might not. We're only fighting a war on-- oh, I don't know," she raised her hand, looking at her wrist as if to look over the display of a watch-- or a PipBoy, "eight fronts?" She dropped her hand back down. "Give or take."

"Eight fronts," Cassandra said, "with one through-line."

Ghost smirked. "Good point."

Raiders were nothing if not ubiquitous in damn near every theater the army found itself tangled up in, and the two mainstays, Jackals and Vipers, were especially so in the absence of the Great Khans. Still-- it wasn't the first, nor would it be the last time that Ghost would insist that Cassandra's path lay elsewhere. That she had greater ambitious than scraping up the refuse at the bottom of the barrel.

She hadn't necessarily agreed with the assessment-- but that seemed beside the point, and the message was clear: what she had was what she got, and it'd be best to start becoming accustomed to letting it all go.

Better to make the most of it, and be as grateful when, finally-- inevitably-- it all came to an end.

 

* * *

 

...

Well.

It wouldn't be any different than how she'd woken up that morning, would it?

And being here, seeing this, feeling it, reaching through well over a decade to find all those familiar moans and sensations firmly intact, was her own decision to make, even if the tone and resonance had changed in the intervening years. Deeper, more sandpaper than silk, but just as potent, the stray whimpers that came with them just as capable of stoking her appetite now as they were before.

Even the anger was familiar. Remote-- quiet and simmering, happily sacrificing her satisfaction at the altar of hypocrisy, and calling to mind those last few times they'd had together, the memory of it just as strong as the grip on her bicep. Moments she'd made sure, in word and in action, that the sniper would regret a decision that hadn't yet been stated aloud, but had - so far as Cassandra could tell - already been made.

It wasn't the same ugly feeling it had been back then-- and for that, she could only be grateful. But the parallel was there to make, slowing her hand, quieting her breathing. It wasn't without consequence; the visible mask of pleasure that had settled over Ghost's face began to shade into something more like confusion, brows caught between knit and furrow listing gradually towards the latter. Then, after a time, hazy eyes fluttered open, meeting hers, fighting to focus, posing a question without any of the earlier irritation.

She considered being brutally honest, in that moment-- but there was a time and a place for that, and this wasn't it.

"It's alright," she said, her voice soft-- dangerously close to a soothing tone that, most of the time, had earned her a slap on the wrist. "Just seemed for a moment like you needed me to ease up."

It was a lie, to be sure-- and one that she hadn't expected to be taken as anything but. Had Ghost not been subject to the whims of the alcohol they'd shared, it probably would have been, but instead, there came a sheepish look, paired with a crooked smile.

Then there was the question that came with it, "That obvious, huh?" stated with such sincerity that Cassandra had to fight to keep her incredulity in check.

"A little," Cassandra said, and allowed her hand to keep moving-- building up from the drop-off that she'd allowed to settle in. "What's that about, anyway?"

Ghost breathed a laugh, her eyes slipping shut-- an oddly nervous sound to pair with a subtle flush that began at the contours of her cheekbones. "Probably better--" she began, and paused; held her breath in time with her muscles closing in around Cassandra's fingers, that knit returning to her brow. "--Better I didn't say," she said quickly, as if it needed to be stated aloud.

 _Because that philosophy served us both so well in the past,_ Cassandra thought, Ghost's own observation - that they were both terrible at this - making another strong case for itself.

Still wasn't the right time for it, even if she was disinclined to let it go without comment, "You're insufferable," said gently; more gently than the words would typically dictate, striking an almost ticklish chord of dissonance. "If you take nothing else from the things I've said tonight, then please-- let it be that."

Ghost let out another short laugh, seeming genuinely amused by the admonishment, and, in spite of herself, Cassandra could feel a vague smile tug at the corner of her mouth.

She could still enjoy the panted breaths and intermittent moans that spiraled out from that simple statement; could appreciate how they rose and fell with every other thrust of her fingers, every other drag of her thumb over a clit that was nudging its way out from underneath its hood. Could catch the subtext in the contortions that came over the sniper's expression, little flickers of concern that might have been inexplicable if she hadn't felt them herself, not twenty minutes prior.

"But," she said, with that in mind, "in your defense, I suppose it's not really that much of a mystery-- is it?" Beat. "What your answer would have been, I mean."

She hadn't quite expected the slight flush that came of it, but then-- she hadn't expected any of this. Not really. Going by the baseline of what she'd anticipated upon waking up that morning, the entire day had reached well beyond the limits of normalcy, about halfway through a grueling walk that was still following her, manifesting as a dull, throbbing ache in the muscles that _weren't_ torn and battered.

"I _can_ feel it, you know," she continued, the press of her thumb bringing  on a full-body hitch of tension in the woman beside her, the groan that came of it, the tightening around her fingers, enough to tease more of a smile out of her. "The things you aren't telling me. But I suppose the rest of you always _was_ a terrible liar."

Which, if she was being honest, was probably for the better-- and that acknowledgment on its own was one that her anger, as indignant and self-righteous as it was, had never quite been able to stomach. What she'd wanted to hear, what she'd wanted to see, she was in no position to handle.

Any more than Ghost had been, the sniper's lip curling to show clenched teeth, an abbreviated groan coming with the backwards tilt of her head, "Fuck," muttered under her breath as the hand between Cassandra's shoulder blades tightened, twisting the fabric beneath her fingers. "You really are-- trying to kill me."

"Mn?" Cassandra added just a touch more pressure to the stokes of her thumb, that alone turning panted breaths into a short gasp. "And how am I trying to do that, exactly?"

"You--" Ghost said, voice straining through a partly held breath. "This."

"Ah," Cassandra said, subtly increasing the speed of thumb and fingers, bit by bit-- just enough to earn a whine of protest that might, in any other life, been a growl of some kind. "Still feeling informative, I see."

But even as she opened her mouth to continue, she felt the hand at her bicep grip down harder before drawing away to catch her by the nape of the neck,  the sniper's eyelids opening for all of a fraction, affording her a look that caught her entirely off-guard.

Distantly, she could recognize that it was the kind of look that sullen twenty-something would have killed for, even as she'd lived in fear of it, but she wasn't given time to tease the thought out much more than that. A kiss was there to intercept, not a moment after their eyes had locked, snuffing it out with the help of the thigh between her own shifting upwards to grind against her, and the hand at her nape dropping down to grasp at her breast.

There was nothing artful about it, no intent to stimulate-- there was only the single-minded desire to indulge, the sniper's fingers tightening around her, kneading firmly. Cassandra answered it with a drag of her hips, a deep thrust of her fingers, and the beginnings of a low moan whose echo rose, breaking from the sniper's throat and terminating, resonant, against their lips. It was a desperate sound, that echo-- as familiar as it was starkly foreign, bidding her eyes to open, to catch one more glimpse of the expression that came with it.

She had to wonder, if only briefly, where all this was when it had actually mattered-- but then the kiss broke, and the sound of her name, "Cassandra," let her know it was time; tugged at her in ways that made her want to do far more than tighten her legs around the thigh they held captive. And even if it hadn't, " _Now_ \-- Cassandra-- _Fuck,_ I'm--" certainly would have.

There was no need to say anything, anyway. Between the hand at her breast lifting to seize at the collar of her shirt, the heavy breaths and near-begging sounds that broke behind clenched teeth, the tug at her fingers, no other words were necessary.

"Go on," Cassandra murmured, shifting her thumb back into place, fingers hooking upwards.

She'd thought to say more-- to urge along what needed no urging, but the impulse was wiped clean out of her mind the very moment it surfaced. Ghost's hips vaulted off the bed, grinding herself against the hand between her legs in that one moment of silence before a sharp shout broke it to pieces. Muscles that gripped now seized, the contractions forming one after another as the shout dissolved to a groan; to a string of curses pitched high, cut through by her every ragged breath.

Cassandra stayed close throughout; felt the resonance of a moan in her throat without hearing it break; kept her eyes riveted on the knit brow-- on lips pulled back to show teeth. To see a familiar expression of pleasure that so often appeared indistinguishable from anguish.

She'd told herself she wanted to see this-- all of it. But without thinking, she leaned forward, capturing the sniper's lips in a kiss that absorbed - answered - every whine and whimper that came of the ebbing climax, her fingers still moving, thrusting deep, thumb pressing hard against a bud made stiff by orgasm until she felt the tug of the leg between her own. An inward twitch of the sniper's thighs, and a sound like a yelp that made it clear they'd reached the point of oversensitivity. Hearing it, her thumb stilled, moved to one side, her fingers still moving in slowing thrusts until all that was left was a lazy drag of the tips against the upper arc of the slick channel they occupied.

The kiss broke, then-- and was followed by another, gentler this time. Then came another-- a little deeper, urged on by the hand at her bicep shifting upwards, and the sensation of fingers threading through her hair. Then came another break, another kiss, one after the other, after the other, small gestures punctuated by nails trailing gently over her scalp, and for a moment--  one, desperate moment, caught short by what, to them, qualified as an outpouring of affection, she didn't know whether to laugh, or cry.

Thankfully, she did neither.

 

* * *

 

"So-- we on for tonight, or what?"

It was a common question, though it usually came with a smile. Sometimes wide, rapacious-- others, that wry coyote's grin, giving the impression of squinting eyes under those dark sunglasses. This was neither; a reminder that those smiles had become more infrequent, that the dispassionate tone had been gaining ground over teasing suggestions, even at those times Cassandra had been the one to raise the question.

Watching the sniper quietly, she got the sense of that hidden gaze watching her in return; saw just enough of the furrow in Ghost's brow to know it was there, but couldn't quite tell if it was irritation, or confusion.

Maybe it was both.

Some small part of her wanted to ignore it. Wanted, instead, to just take the night off, as she had the last time, and the time before that-- but just that one question, with a tone that bordered on dismissive, spoken so close to the camp in which they'd met--

"About that," she said, the words, _I have more self-respect than that_ , painfully close to gaining a foothold.

So she paused, for a time; saw Ghost looking at her again, and kept watching for a moment, then another. Gave as much time as she could reasonably justify, waiting for that expression to show something other than impassivity.

It didn't.

Brought to mind a question she'd been asked, when all this started-- teasing, lighthearted, even affectionate--

_Don't you ever get tired?_

As it turned out - "I think it'd be best if we didn't," she said simply - the answer was _yes_.

Ghost breathed a short laugh, the corner of her mouth quirking upwards, as if the lengthy pause hadn't registered. "Simple 'no' would've sufficed," she said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her jeans pocket. She tilted the pack in Cassandra's direction first, then, upon being rebuffed, took one for herself, "You got a run tonight that I didn't hear about?" and wedged it between her lips.

She was going to play dumb. Because she always played dumb.

Cassandra paused on that thought, just long enough to hear the click of the lighter's flint, and the crackle of the ember igniting. Just long enough to bite back the flash of anger that came with all of it.

Then, she said, "You didn't let me finish."

She hadn't intended on the words sounding that cold, but-- well. Maybe she had.

Got the sniper's attention, at least, the tone of voice, the stony look that came with it, drawing Ghost's gaze back in Cassandra's direction, the lungfull of smoke she'd taken in breathed out slowly out of one side of her mouth.

"Do you remember what you said to me," Cassandra said, "when this first started?"

Another pause. It should have been heartening to see the mask fade, to see the realization hit with a slow burn of uncertainty, but it left her unmoved.

"Said a lot of things," Ghost said, doing a poor job of hiding the note of caution in her tone. "You'll have to be a little more specific."

"You told me that if I wanted this to stop," Cassandra said, "then that's all I had to say."

A moment passed. Then another.

The look faded.

Ghost took a drag off her cigarette, plucked it from her lips, and ashed it to one side, "Well," said softly, though her tone betrayed nothing, "are you?"

Cassandra just nodded, making it a point to meet the sniper's shielded gaze. "Seems that way."

Ghost paused; nodded, herself, after a moment. "Alright," she said. "Fair enough."

And that was that.

Simple. Painless.

No hard feelings, they'd said. Entirely worthwhile, they'd said. They'd stay friends, still work together. Just as seamless as promised. As for the knot in her throat? Well-- she'd been complaining about mold in the bedrolls for days, and tonight was as good a night as any to take care of it.

Once that was taken care of, the sensation would subside, and everything would go back to normal.

 

* * *

 

There was no such thing as _normal_ , though, was there? Not in the rangers, not in the military-- and certainly not for her.

Or, so she told herself.

If anything, that word-- _inevitable_ \-- It had always been normal. People came, people went, and attachment, such as it was, was comfortably distilled down to the occasional tryst, be it with a squadmate that caught her interest, or someone that just happened to jockey for her attention on exactly the right night. Purposefully shallow liaisons, all of them, playing out over a short period of time, spaced just far enough apart that it was unlikely to invite any hard feelings when _inevitably_ , yes, she moved on. Two, maybe three encounters each, in which they enjoyed one another's company, then parted ways, either due to their assignments taking them away from one another, or simply due to the recognition that, outside of their chosen profession, and the moments they'd shared, they had little else in common.

There was no shame in that, she felt. They'd handled themselves like adults; had taken what they wanted from one another, gave only what little they felt comfortable with, and left it at that. And while there was a deeper connection that she occasionally felt was missed, it seemed less and less important to reach for it. She had the rest of her life to flirt with the idea of something _more_ , of something 'significant,' and the camaraderie that came with joint missions had more than made up for it. That's what she told herself, at least, and, for the most part, it was true.

But she'd never really stopped to ask why she took to it so eagerly-- or why so few of her partners had been women.

It wasn't as if she hadn't had any chances. There were a good five years’ worth of chances, before her injury had taken her out of commission, but she always had one reason or another for why it wasn't a particularly good idea. Sometimes, it was location - some desolate corner of the wasteland with locals that uplifted procreation over recreation, painting targets on the backs of those that ignored male 'entitlements' - and sometimes, it was the company - a mouthy corporal, or, ironically, a rigid colonel that had certain ideas about what _decorum_ meant.

She hadn't much respected, either, but they made for good scapegoats. Ghost hadn't been wrong about the sheer number of fronts the NCR had been fighting on, and the number never seemed to diminish. Limiting those threats, making it a point to refrain from inviting yet more of them to her doorstep, seemed a rational choice.

Surely, it didn't have anything to do with concepts like _hurt_ or _abandonment_  being so fiercely compartmentalized, the self-inflicted side of it left conveniently ignored; didn't have anything to do with the flagging mood that often surged to the foreground when she licked the wet sheen a short-term companion's orgasm off her fingers. The mood was the fault of a bad night, of too much drink; the resistance to the subtle and unsubtle bonds those moments formed were for her partner's good, rather than her own, and everything else, like the little flickers of something like regret, were merely transitory.

Just another moment sacrificed to the gravitational pull of inevitability.

Simple as that.

And, she granted, about as cowardly as it sounded, in hindsight. Moreso, as she welcomed affections in the here and now that were, themselves, bittersweet. Withdrawing her hand from between the sniper's thighs, she let it comb through soft hair, and up over bare skin, fingers tightening against the subtle curvature of a denim-clad hip. Felt the fingers still buried in her hair comb through the strands, and drop to her shoulder, urging her onto her back, her own drifting upwards to take hold of Ghost's nape. Suffering only a couple breaks as the sniper's knees settled to either side of her hips, the kiss was sustained by a mix of luck, and sheer force of will, lasting even through hands pushing at her dress shirt to draw it down off her shoulders, fingers clutching at the skin they bared.

Something desperate about that, too, she realized. Not just wanting and eager, which was surprising in its own right, but _anxious_.

Just one more thing that had arrived unexpected. And opening her eyes, as she arched her back to make room for the shirt coming down, pulling her arms free only to raise them above her head, letting the undershirt follow suit, she saw a gaze that mirrored in full the impression that touch had given.

And just like so many other things that night, there came the usual backlash-- and, refreshingly quick, the easing of it. An internal directive to just sink into it, and let the past tend to itself.


End file.
